


The Potions Master

by tmkwrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Harry Potter, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fantasy, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Herbology Professor Neville Longbottom, Professor Harry Potter, Professor Neville Longbottom, Quidditch Player Harry Potter, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Sweet Neville Longbottom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 62,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27389263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmkwrites/pseuds/tmkwrites
Summary: *ON HIATUS. DATE IN WHICH IT WILL RETURN TO BE ANNOUNCED SOON*It's been eight years since the Battle of Hogwarts, and seven since the bright-eyed Helena Borington graduated Hogwarts. Ever since, she has been determined for a place back in the castle, no matter where it might be--and at last, came the position for Potions Master.Helena readily applies—and is accepted—with little to no qualms (why are the classrooms in the dungeons?), and is expectant of a year of teaching eager students such valuable information, but is met with a surprise just before the school year begins.Two boys of which she previously went to school with--Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom--are to teach alongside her, Harry just as fresh as her to the idea of teaching. And while Helena derives some comfort from the fact, she remembers one thing from her time at Hogwarts quite surely:Trouble follows not far from Harry James Potter.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 92
Kudos: 97





	1. Back to Hogwarts

**Author's Note:**

> *This fanfiction is a participant of NaNoWriMo. Please keep in mind that as of November 4, 2020 onward, you will be reading the ROUGH DRAFT.
> 
> Hi there! Author longerbottom here. I just wanted to say something I felt had a bit of importance to the story. 
> 
> I know many readers are fans of "Y/N" fanfiction or slash reader fics, and I do not want to take that experience away from you with Helena! Please feel free to imagine yourself as her and substitute your name in for hers. I simply find it easier to write a story when all of my characters have a name, and Helena's name also feeds into some of the fluffy banter I have planned for later on. Remember, this story is just as much yours as it is mine! 
> 
> Special notices to some of my mutuals, who helped to encourage me to write this fic. You can find them on Tiktok @ quidittch, @ professorneville, @ ravenclawliz, @ shortbottom, @ justarly, and @ nicolearicker.
> 
> Additionally, I just need to put out there a huge thanks for visiting my story! I hope you enjoy reading as much as I did writing! Have fun!

It had been an agonizing few weeks, laying in wait for this moment, but the time had finally come.

Helena Borington sat with her hands clasped neatly over her bulging suitcase, gazing out over the landscape passing her by in a great green blur. Muggle transport had not been her first choice to travel with, but it was easier than most--especially seeing as she couldn’t apparate very well--so here she found herself aboard a train from London hurtling toward the Scottish Highlands for her newest endeavor.

The letter that had brought her to this moment was tucked neatly away within the suitcase, kept almost perfectly preserved for keepsake purposes. When it had arrived, and Helena had scanned through its contents, she had felt an overwhelming sense of pride in herself, much like she’d just won some grand prize at the end of a race. Ever since, she’d likely read the letter about twenty times over, each experience better than the last as she realized she had truly done it.

Because it was on her mind once again, Helena now moved to unlatch the suitcase, unconcerned about being unable to close it back completely. She slid it off of her lap, into the seat beside her, and pulled it open.

It was a surprise that the old yellow thing hadn’t fallen apart yet. Inside was a hastily packed wardrobe--dress robes and clothes that had been obviously thrown in without a second thought. Then there were books, books unrelated to the wizarding world but of which Helena valued deeply. The neatest section of the suitcase was, considerably, the miniature vials of ingredients for brews, not nearly all of what Helena owned back at home but merely a collection of the ones she tended to use the most. They were sewn into little pockets along the roof of the suitcase, pockets that didn’t match because they had not been there originally. Their addition had been done as a favor by her grandfather, Angus, when she had inherited the suitcase. 

“That there is for the utmost important specimens,” he’d told her with a wink. “That way you can bring them home from wherever you might go, or vice versa.”

Helena smiled a sad smile as she remembered this, thinking about how proud Angus might have been to hear about where she was heading now.

Pushing the sentimentality aside, she now slid the envelope out of the silken lining. The edges of the heavy parchment were already beginning to wear from her handling it so much, and the flap itself was slightly warped from the weight of the purple wax seal. She pushed it away and pulled out the single piece of paper inside.

Dear Ms. Borington,  
I do hope this letter finds you in good health, and if not, do take care to let me know straight away.

Helena had laughed at this the first time she’d read the letter. Now, she simply bore a smile.

I am pleased to inform you that your application for the position of Potions professor here at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has been accepted. You’ll be expected here at the castle by 15 of August so as to begin preparations for the upcoming academic school year. If you wish to come any earlier, that can be arranged.  
Do please come visit me in my office upon your arrival, as we have much to discuss before you begin your teachings.  
Until then, Ms. Borington.  
Best wishes,  
Minerva McGonagall  
Headmistress

Sighing contentedly, Helena leaned back in her seat and lay the letter open-faced on her lap. It would be another few hours before her arrival, but she somehow already felt as if she was there, back to roaming the halls of the school she’d spent most of her young life at. Back in that time, she never dreamed she’d get the chance to return once she graduated. However, life has a mysterious way of working. . .

It had really been a last minute thing. It was back in the springtime, on a rather dismal day owing to the thunderstorms that had been sweeping through for most of the week. Helena had just run out of lacewing flies, and was in desperate need of them for the concoction she had planned to make later in the evening. Begrudgingly, as she was not so much of a fan of traveling in the rain, she had slid on her raincoat and made her way to Diagon Alley.

Gratefully, traffic in the Alley was slow that day, and Helena was easily able to make her way down the cobblestone street straight to Slug and Jigger’s Apothecary. When she’d entered, she immediately noticed that she seemed to be the only customer in there. Usually, on bright, sunny days, the Alley was filled to the brim with other witches and wizards in need of supplies or goodies. Perhaps, Helena thought, she’d need to take more rainy days to do her shopping.

As she scanned the shelves of the Apothecary, she could hear the low talk of the storeowners drifting toward her from the front. Without even meaning to, she began to listen in.  
“Heard Hagrid talking about it the other day,” one went on. “Said they’ve gotta find one quick, otherwise they’ll be strugglin’.”

“Ah, well, I knew ol’ Bringham wouldn’ las’,” said the second one thoughtfully. “He gave it a good run, I suppose, but what can you expect from a job like that?”

“Hogwarts has a reputation, you bet,” the first one chuckled. “You’d’ve thought it’d go back to normal after He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was defeated.”

Helena found the lacewing flies. She snatched them up in their little corked jar and began to make her way up to the counter. “Excuse me,” she cut in. The storeowners turned to her. “Pardon that it’s none of my business, but what are you talking about?”

One of the men side-eyed the other before turning to Helena. “Hogwarts gamekeeper’s out sayin’ they’re in need of a new Professor,” he told her slowly, perhaps offended that she’d been eavesdropping. “Potions.”

“Oh, really?” Helena attempted to sound casual, but at the sound of this information, her heart had erupted into a flutter. She knew that feeling all too well--it was the excitement of opportunity.

“Yeah, but I’m sure that Headmistress McGonagall’s likely up to her head in inquiries. S’not every day a position opens at Hogwarts. Lawrence and I were just thinking of applying ourselves.”

“Hmm,” Helena hummed thoughtfully, too caught up in her own head with visions of her at the front of a classroom, instructing young pupils to care much about this man’s endeavors. “How much for the lacewing flies?”

“Fifteen Knuts,” Lawrence answered. Helena began to dig through her satchel.

“You’re not thinking of applying, are you?” The first man said now, redirecting her attention back to him.

“And what’s it to you if I am?” She snapped, noticing the slight hint of condescension on his face. 

“I have my doubts about a young woman being able to handle that sort of career, is all,” he shrugged. 

Helena dropped the Knuts on the countertop with an enormous clang. She snatched up her jar of lacewing flies and shoved them into her pocket. “Pleasure doing business with you boys,” she said briskly, and with a sense of resolution decided to send an application to Minerva McGonagall at once.

She’d spent the entirety of her night pruning and perfecting her letter to the headmistress, loading it up completely with nearly every single accomplishment she’d ever achieved. Words like Hufflepuff House prefect and O in Potions despite a difficult teacher were floating aimlessly around her head by the early hours of the morning, and with a great flourish she’d signed her name to the paper and sent it off tied to the leg of her owl, Philo. After this, Helena dropped off into a deep sleep at her kitchen table, too exhausted to shuffle down the hallway to her bed.

The famed reply had arrived about a month later, when Helena had nearly forgotten about the position and moved on to other things on the notion that she had failed. Philo had dropped it on her lap at breakfast, and when she’d picked it up, it had taken a few moments to register what she was looking at. Once she’d scanned her eyes over the daintily scrawled address (Ms. H. Borington, Wiggentree Road, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon) her hand had begun to tremble. This was it. A balloon was rising in her chest, and it was up to the contents of this note if it should pop or not.

It was lucky for her that the balloon did not indeed burst. In fact, it felt as though it continued to rise, and up she shot out of her seat to dance a jig around the kitchen. Philo startled from his perch and hooted at her, as if to ask what had her in such a pleasant mood. In response, Helena had scratched beneath his chin affectionately and given him a treat. She could simply not believe that she would be going back to Hogwarts after eight long years.

She must have dozed off, because next thing she knew, she was being startled awake by the screeching rails of the train coming to a halt. Hurriedly, she began to put her letter back away, which was still clutched between her fingertips on her lap. A transmitter sounded overhead.

“Foray Station, dropoff at Foray Station,” it crackled, and Helena leapt to her feet. This was her stop.

It was warmer out on the platform than it had been on the train. The summer breeze rustled through her hair as she stepped out into the sunshine, away from the area where passengers were congregating to board. From her back pocket she retrieved a map, which might have confused the average Muggle. This was because to anybody besides her, the paper would appear blank, a simple yet effective charm that would protect the contents from potential wrongdoers. McGonagall had sent it to her shortly after her acceptance letter had arrived, and with it came very simple instructions.

This is a map to your Portkey, located shortly from the Foray Station in Moorsy, McGonagall had written. I have placed a simple concealment charm over it for the sake of sinister persons possibly lurking for their chance to intrude upon our grounds. It will work anywhere from noon onward, until midnight. The object used is a very old, tattered suitcase. 

I do ask that you please arrive in an orderly fashion for our meeting, as you’ll remember we’ll need to talk once you are here. See you then.

Helena looked down at the map now, eyes following the red line of which started at Foray Station and carved its way through Moorsy. It seemed, she thought, that it ended just outside of the other side of town, in the thin strip of trees that separated it from a great expanse of rolling hills. She sighed, bracing herself for the trek she was about to make, and started off down the sidewalk toward the cluster of buildings ahead.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, had it not been for the fact that once out in the sun for so long, it began to feel marginally hotter than the welcoming warmth that had previously greeted her on the platform. Sweat began to build on her brow as she went along, hauling the heavy suitcase right alongside her. At one point, she decided she must take a break, and settled for a Choco-Delight at one of Moorsy’s little ice cream shops. A dainty place it was--in fact, the entirety of Moorsy was dainty, and only one word came to mind when Helena took it all in: adorable. If it hadn’t been for needing to get somewhere, she would have quite liked to be able to stop and fully enjoy the place for what it was worth. 

But today, she was in an excited hurry. Once the last of the Choco-Delight was finished, she was off again, this time much more hopeful as she’d spotted a bit of trees pressed against the bright blue sky up ahead.

Upon arriving at the location, she scanned her eyes around the edge of the wood for the “very old, tattered suitcase.” It only took a mere few moments before she was able to locate it, and plucked it from the foliage it was tucked within. Now, she squared her shoulders back, gripping her own suitcase so hard that her palm began to sweat, and pulled out her wand from her back pocket. “Accio suitcase!” She canted, doing her best to keep her wand hand as open as possible to catch the handle.

At lightning speed, the suitcase rose from its place in the leaves and hurtled toward her. She shut her eyes, as if to shut out the impact of it, and felt the handle brush her fingertips.

It was as though a hook had tugged her by the navel, hard. She felt her feet lift off the ground and suddenly she was in a familiar whirl, traveling at lightning speed toward her destination. This sensation only lasted a few moments--she barely had much time to collect her thoughts as her feet found solidity once more and she was stumbling through a brilliant patch of green grass.  
Heaving a great sigh of relief, Helena allowed herself to drop both suitcases and tend to brushing herself off. While distracted, she did not seem to notice the large figure approaching her from a nearby path.

“All righ’ Helena?” Rubeus Hagrid bellowed, casting a dark shadow over her as he came nearer. 

“Oh, just splendid, Rubeus,” Helena grunted as she finished picking out a bit of leaf that had somehow entangled itself in her hair. “Lovely to see a familiar face.”

She shoved her wand back into her pocket.

Hagrid did not seem to have changed one bit since the last time Helena had been at Hogwarts. His rosy cheeks were turned upward by the jolly smile upon his face, hidden just beneath his great, frizzy brown beard, which was surprisingly no match for his head of hair. Black, beetle-like eyes twinkled jovially upon speaking to her, and Helena was grateful that of all people McGonagall could have sent for her, it was Hagrid that the job was left up to.

“Let me get your bag there for yeh then,” Hagrid offered, leaning down and reaching out a ginormous hand for the Portkey rather than Helena’s actual suitcase.

“Oh--Rubeus--” Helena stuttered out with a laugh. “Wrong one.” She swapped the cases out, and Hagrid chuckled.

“My bad,” he said with a quirk of his eyebrows, and began to lead her up the path toward Hogwarts’s front gates. 

Helena had to appreciate, now, the beauty of the land surrounding Hogwarts. This was a well-trodden dirt path, one of which she had traveled many times upon her departure from the Hogwarts Express in her later years, but she had never taken the time to gaze about as she was so caught up in conversations with friends. Now that it was just her and Hagrid (who took such large strides that it was quite the chore to keep up with him), she found herself gazing up in wonder around at the luscious green fir trees that looked marvelous in the golden sunlight of the evening. 

“So, what brings yeh back to Hogwarts?” Hagrid asked once they had settled into a rhythmic walk. “Couldn’ keep away, could yeh?” He beamed down at her. Helena returned the gesture with a shy grin.

“I’ve not had a steady job since I left,” she admitted. “I always dreamed I would have consistency, but then everything I tried failed to fit my taste.” She shrugged. “I heard about this, and couldn’t resist. Potions was my best class, you know.”

Hagrid chuckled. “Right next to mine, o’ course.”

Helena didn’t correct him. She didn’t have the heart to inform him that her second-best ranking academic achievements had been in Transfiguration. “My favorite lesson was on the unicorns.”

Hagrid gave a curt nod. “I personally enjoyed the blast-ended skrewts meself.”

Helena did not want to dwell on the thought of those wretched things that had haunted her third year. She decided to change the subject.

“How have you been, Rubeus?”

Hagrid gave a slight shiver, even though it was quite warm. “Jus’ call me Hagrid. It’s weird when you say Rubeus.”

Helena laughed. “All right, Hagrid.”

“It’s been. . . quiet,” Hagrid sighed. “Pre’y domestic, if yeh ask me. Not enough action e’er since the fall of. . . well. . . you know.”

Helena did know. She did not feel like recalling those dreadful memories in this moment. 

“Yeah. But I suppose that’s been nice?”

“Oh, jus’ peachy,” Hagrid grinned. “And I thank goodness ev’ry day good ol’ McGonagall let me stay as gamekeeper after she was appointed.” He shrugged. “But, then again, I s’pose she was the one who defended me in front of that git Umbridge back in ‘96. Good woman, McGonagall is.”

Helena had to agree. Professor McGonagall had been the one instructor at Hogwarts that she had worked hardest at impressing. McGonagall’s demeanor had always been a sort of brisk, tough love that she was determined to win over, a task she believed she’d been quite successful at by the time she’d finished up school. The only time she had ever felt second to anyone was when Harry Potter or Hermione Granger were in the same room. 

“Tell me, Hagrid, how is Professor McGonagall? Or Headmistress, as I should say.”

“Splendid!” He confirmed. “Oh, you know Minerva. She jus’ thrives in tha’ sort of position, makin’ sure everyone has what they need an’ everythin’s in its right place an’ such.”

“I bet,” Helena smiled fondly. She pictured Professor McGonagall sitting in Dumbledore’s office, sifting through papers with her most serious expression, both exhausted but secretly enjoying the workload. Helena thought that perhaps Minerva McGonagall would be the perfect embodiment of the phrase “labor of love.”

“There’s the gates,” Hagrid pointed as he stumbled up the bit of steep hill they had begun to ascend. He busied himself with a large set of keys tinkling on a ring that had been dangling from his waistband all this time. Helena’s suitcase looked positively miniscule in comparison to even the keys.

Once they finished climbing the hill, Hagrid was able to separate out the key needed and turned it in the large lock centered in the tall, wrought-iron gates. Looking at them, Helena remembered the day in which all Hogwarts students’ belongings were strewn about this area, being dug through and inspected for any dark items. That had been a very uneasy day indeed--not that she’d had anything to hide, but rather because the sensation that tensions were growing to a boil was rather uncomfortable. And so was the fact that Argus Filch had to see her undergarments within her trunk.

“There we are,” Hagrid cleared his throat as the gates swung open. “After you.” He gave her a polite, gentlemanly motion with his arms. Helena stepped through the gate.

Immediately, her home away from home swam into view, almost like a mirage appearing before her eyes. As she walked, it was without command, as if her feet knew by nature where to go. Through the grounds they went, passing by Hagrid’s hut (Fang the boarhound’s barks echoed across the way), the Quidditch Pitch (looking rather lonesome without a great deal of students filling out the stands), and the Black Lake (where the squid remained, propelling himself through the water blissfully). It was a relief to climb the stone steps, as her legs were beginning to grow tired, and an even bigger relief to step within the Entrance Hall, where cool air washed over her in welcoming. 

Helena had expected to experience a wave of nostalgia upon her arrival, but nothing could have prepared her for this. Hogwarts was virtually unchanged, seemingly rebuilt back into perfection after the Battle of Hogwarts had been fought. In her seventh year, she remembered, they had been quite a distance from completely rebuilding the castle--that year had called for an extra coat in the wintertime, owing to the places where walls had been destroyed. But now. . .

“Its just as I remember it,” she said breathlessly. “When things were. . . normal.”

Hagrid didn’t agree nor disagree, but rather allowed her to soak it all in. He leaned down, cheeks practically beet red from the effort they’d spent on trekking to the castle, and sat her suitcase down beside her. “I believe this is where I leave yeh,” he said in his gravelly voice, putting his hands on his hips and giving the Entrance Hall a sweeping look. “McGonagall’ll be expectin’ yeh, I’m sure.”

It took a moment for Helena to realize that her mouth had fallen open just slightly. She closed it and refocused on the task at hand: Meeting McGonagall, and then hopefully turning in for a good night’s sleep after a scrumptious supper. “Yes, she sent me a note to meet her once I got here.” She cleared her throat, a nervous tic. “Thanks, Hagrid.”

Hagrid gave her a bow and began to make his way back to his hut. He turned to her as he opened the doors once more. Evening light highlighted his face. “Le’ me know if you need anythin’, all righ’?”

Helena smiled appreciatively. “You got it.”

After Hagrid had gone, Helena did not bother to pick up her suitcase just yet. Instead, she crept over to the corner of the archway that served as the bridge between the Entrance and Great Halls.  
Upon seeing the Great Hall, Helena’s heart swelled. She could only imagine how it might feel when the students would be there, bustling amongst the tables and buzzing with all their excitement. Now, she would be a professor, seated among those at the High Table, with the likes of Professor McGonagall and even Flitwick by her side. . .

“Ms. Borington, pleased to see you could indeed arrive in a timely fashion.”

Helena whirled to see a slightly older Professor McGonagall standing in a refined sort of way, with her arms drawn to her sides and hands clasped gently in front of her. Behind a set of rectangle spectacles there twinkled her usually calculating eyes, though today they wore a much softer expression, something much more. . . relaxed. Her lips were pressed in the warmest smile somebody such as Minerva McGonagall could muster.

“Professor!” Helena burst, and then immediately felt as though she’d come off as much too excited. McGonagall, however, did not even bat an eye at this behavior.

“Lovely to see you again, Helena. I assume you have been taking it all in?”

Helena nodded vigorously. “It all looks so spectacular, Professor. I never imagined it would manage to look the same, but. . .” She drifted off, eyes wandering back to the Great Hall. McGonagall stepped toward her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“How about we head up to my office? We have much to discuss, dear.”

Snapping herself out of the whirlwind of her thoughts, Helena bobbed her head up and down in agreement. “Yes, yes of course, Professor.” She began to walk toward the moving staircases with Professor McGonagall, snatching up her suitcase along the way.

“Please, Ms. Borington, I am no longer your teacher. There is no need to call me ‘professor’ anymore. McGonagall will do.”

“Sorry, Professor McGonagall.”

The entire way up the stairs, Helena continued to be in amazement. She felt as if she were eleven again, a bright-eyed girl teeming with wonder and curiosity who simply could not wait to get her hands on any and everything. Some of her most beloved paintings had seemingly been replaced, she noticed, but there was a mix of old ones remaining, too, that she resisted the urge to holler at. Some of them had given her their best tips on schoolwork when she needed them; in fact, the portrait of Professor Swoopstikes (located at the end of one of the aisles of the library) had been what sparked her interest in potions, as he had helped her cheat on a bit of homework that Snape had refused to in any way assist needy students on. After seeing what she could potentially create without some greasy, righteous git in the way, Helena fell in love with the subject. It was a bloody shame somebody so poisonous commandeered the classroom for the majority of the time she was completing her studies, and then it was bloody lucky that Swoopstikes’s portrait was there to assist any time she needed it. 

After weaving through a few corridors, the pair found themselves in front of the gargoyle that guarded the rising stairs to the Head Office. “Lemon drop,” McGonagall chided to it, and it swung open, revealing the staircase. 

Up they climbed together, and Helena found herself wistful for a place to sit. 

During her time at Hogwarts, she had never seen the insides of Dumbledore’s office. Nothing she had done had ever called for a conference with the headmaster, and so today would be the first time she’d ever visited it. What she saw when they finally made their way inside took her breath away. The ceiling rose as high as a Cathedral, positively grand and ornate. A large, intimidating desk--she assumed it was McGonagall’s, of course--commanded the room right in the center. In fact, the boldness of it almost distracted from the collection of magical artifacts that decorated the room, all of which were organized right down to the most minute bauble. Yet one more time, Helena gaped slightly.

“Pull up a seat, dear,” McGonagall said, leaving Helena’s side and rounding the desk to her own chair. Only for a few more moments did Helena waste by gazing about the beautiful room before coming forward and dropping herself into a leather seat. She took in the contents atop McGonagall’s desk; neat stacks of papers that read “Hogsmeade Permission Forms,” a splendid looking quill poised elegantly near the middle, and a. . . cookie tin?

“Have a biscuit if you’d like,” McGonagall nodded toward the tin as she flipped through some parchment. 

Helena smiled to herself, almost tickled by the idea that McGonagall kept these out on her desk for guests. They looked fresh, too. Did she bake them herself, Helena had to wonder?  
“Er--I’m alright,” she continued to grin, and tried to wipe it off her face before McGonagall looked back up from her sifting.

“Here it is,” McGonagall eventually murmured, pulling out a single piece and smoothing it flat against the tabletop. “I must say, I was very much delighted when your application arrived, Ms. Borington,” she began in one of her rare, enthusiastic voices. There was a flounce to her cadence, much to Helena’s surprise. She blushed at this. “I remember your time here at Hogwarts, and I saw much of what you accomplished, believe it or not. It would be a downright lie to say I hadn’t once been disappointed you hadn’t been sorted into my own house.”  
If it were possible, the redness in Helena’s cheeks deepened.

McGonagall began to scan through the slip of parchment before her. “Yes, a very bright pupil indeed. . . O’s across the board, besides in Care of Magical Creatures?”

“Don’t tell Hagrid,” Helena burst. “It was a downright shame--”

“Oh, nonsense, Ms. Borington. An E is just as acceptable, we all have our one thing. . .” She began to hum as she continued down the parchment. “Prefect, of course I knew that. . . Skilled in Potions. . . even Snape had to admit that by your fourth year. . . I hope you know, however, that I did not choose you for this position simply because of your academic history.” McGonagall now looked up at her.

Helena felt slightly confused. “You--you didn’t?”

“It is certainly a bonus, and helped give you a magnificent leg up, but I needed something more. . . substantial. Somebody in which I knew was a good role model, who would be willing to lead a classroom of students with merit and heart. Seeing as I know you personally, Ms. Borington, and see that you carry much of those qualities, I simply could not let such an opportunity to have you among my staff slip through my fingers.”

Helena was rendered speechless by such flattery, especially doled out by one of her bigger role models. She opened her mouth. “Professor, I--I--” She sighed and smiled. “Thank you, Professor McGonagall.”

McGonagall allowed her usual brisk beam to spread across her face. “Of course, Ms. Borington. Should we talk more about preparations for the academic year?”

Helena nodded vigorously and scooted forward in her seat. Over the next hour, McGonagall was sure to not miss a beat with all they had to cover; they went over the rotation of classes, class lists, and even the ideal amount of homework that McGonagall swore would help, little by little, to get students better grades. There were also more informal topics, such as how to spot a distressed student, a plan McGonagall had devised as a protocol after the Chamber of Secrets catastrophe. Once they had wrapped everything necessary up (and McGonagall had laden Helena down with a surplus of folders, parchment, and even some leatherbound books on the methods of teaching magic), McGonagall finally rose from her chair and clasped her hands before her once more.

“I expect you’ll be anxious to set up your classroom, then?”

“Please,” Helena said breathlessly beneath all of the items she’d been given. 

“Splendid. If you’ll follow me, then.”

Down the staircase they went, through the corridors and the heart of the castle, through the Entrance Hall and off to the side. Helena realized where they were going once they reached the stone steps, and she became--not appalled, but rather, disappointed.

“The potions classrooms are still in the dungeons?” She squeaked unintentionally, remembering the chill of the rooms during the winter.

McGonagall chuckled. “Well, where else would they be?”

Helena did not object to this--tonight had been going so well and she did not want to ruin the mood by acting spoiled. Still, she noted to herself, she would have to invest in a good pair of thick, woolen socks here soon. . . 

“Here we are,” McGonagall announced as they reached the bottom of the steps and turned yet another corridor. They had arrived in a mostly barren classroom, save for the school-provided potion ingredients lined up along the walls. “The pantry is still here, of course, full of your more. . . extreme ingredients,” McGonagall said as she motioned toward what looked like a closet door. “And then you have your usuals. Extra textbooks are in that cupboard, though most students should be properly equipped with what they need. . .” She drifted off now, looking slightly saddened. “Then, of course, you always have your few. . .” She shook this thought away now, visibly ruffling her shoulders. “Take all the time you need to prepare, Ms. Borington. You can pick up supper from the kitchens when you get hungry, though mind you to probably take a coat along in there; ever since Minister Granger liberated house-elves, we’ve hired a staff of ghosts to run the place. . .”  
“Noted,” Helena sighed as she dropped the books and such onto her desktop. Her suitcase slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. She felt her ears turn red with the sound, but McGonagall did not seem to mind. 

“Your bedchambers are just down the hallway. Feel free to make it your own; you are expected to stay here for the majority of the year, after all. It is equipped with a fireplace and some basic furniture.” McGonagall turned to face her now, gazing at her imploringly. “Do you have any questions?”

All Helena could think about was how empty her stomach was beginning to feel. A Choco-Delight was not enough to fill somebody up for an elongated amount of time. Feeling as if she might be unable to process anymore information tonight, she shook her head. “I think I’m good.”

“Well, should you ever need anything, my office is always open. Even if the subject of the matter seems irrelevant--we need for things to go smoothly around here so as to give these children a proper education.” She sighed, removed her spectacles from atop her nose, rubbed the lenses on her robes, and returned them back to their place. “I’ll leave you to it then, Ms. Borington. Have a good night.” She moved toward the exit, assumedly to return to her office.

“Good night, Professor.”

McGonagall dipped her head back through the doorway. “How many times must I say--just McGonagall, dear.”

Helena nodded, though she was sure she might never manage to say that without feeling strange. “Old habit, Professor.”

With another chuckle, McGonagall disappeared up the stairs, leaving Helena by her lonesome finally. 

It had been a long day. The sun had long disappeared while she’d been up in the Head Office, and so a dimness haunted the classroom, making it feel all the more emptier and neglected. With a big exhale, Helena threw herself into her desk’s seat, still hungry but unwilling to trudge herself back up the stairs to the kitchens.

Tiredly, she lugged her suitcase atop the desk and opened it. From a concealment in the lining, she retrieved two very worn looking photos.

In one, her grandfather was running right alongside her down a wide hallway, a toddler version of herself gliding bumpily along on a miniature broom. He was smiling; she was giggling uncontrollably. That had been her first time on a broom, her first introduction to Quidditch, and it had resulted in a few broken vases.

The other was unmoving, a simple, calm photo, containing a much younger version of her grandmother and grandfather, standing together with charming, beautiful smiles on their faces. A baby bump was just barely visible on her grandmother--her father, she knew.

“I did it,” she whispered, laying the pictures before her, resting her head against her folded arms on the desktop. “I’m here.”

And then, because she was so thoroughly exhausted, she drifted off into a sleep, right at her new desk.


	2. A Great Feast

With September first drawing nearer, Helena had begun to feel her first twinge of anxiety at the prospect of instructing a classroom of unfamiliar faces. The feeling made her legs turn to jelly and her stomach turn; in fact, she felt much like a child, expected to be off to her first day of school before she’d made friends or met the teachers. Most days were spent in her classroom preparing a class agenda, or working tirelessly to make the atmosphere down there as comfortable as possible. This meant taking on the seemingly impossible task of lightening up the interior of the dungeons--Severus Snape had done a perfectly good job of leaving his dreary mark on the place, even with another teacher having been there before her.

She was grateful, however, for the half-month’s advance she’d had from McGonagall, as she was able to get much more work done without much of a disturbance from others. In fact, she rarely saw anybody during these seven days; the only times she really went upstairs was to nick a bit of food from the kitchens. There was no time to explore the castle for a bit or stroll the lovely grounds. She would save these activities for when classes were in full swing, when she’d planned enough ahead that she wouldn’t be confined to her classroom or office all day long. 

The day before the start-of-term feast, she finally felt satisfied with herself. She had been quite successful in siphoning away much of the slime that diseased the stone walls (foul smelling stuff that was), ridding the supplies cabinet of a boggart (that had been an unpleasant surprise), and had even taken to conjuring up a few scent-based potions to place around the room so as to chase away the odor that the bottom of the lake gave the place. McGonagall had even granted her permission to put some shag rugs down, a homey touch that Helena was worried she’d regret with the first spill any student was bound to have. 

The morning of September the first dawned with a drizzle cascading over the grounds, much to Helena’s dismay. She had found herself in the Great Hall with a shockingly gray-haired Professor Flitwick upon McGonagall’s request. With the waves of each of their wands, out slid the house tables into place, their flags unfurling above them to mark each as their own. Helena had just finished setting up Gryffindor’s table when McGonagall herself swept into the room.

“May I pull her aside for a moment?” She asked Professor Flitwick, who nodded approval. Curious, Helena joined her in a conference that felt private, despite the fact that they were only a few feet away from Flitwick, who was seeming to pretend to be busy as he moved his ear closer in their direction.

“What is it, Professor?”

“McGonagall, Ms. Borington, and it’s nothing major. I’ve just come to tell you that you’ll be assuming the role of Head of the Hufflepuff House, is all. It completely slipped my mind to let you know before this morning.”

Helena felt as if her heart was blooming in vibrant color. “You’re serious, Professor?”

“Does it look as though I am kidding?” McGonagall asked rhetorically, in a rather serious tone. Her voice dropped a bit. “We’re lacking in Hufflepuffs on our staff. It’s been a struggle since Pomona left. . .”

Helena furrowed her brow. She had not known that Professor Sprout would not be joining them for the school year. She wondered how long Sprout had been gone for.

“Anywho, I also must inform you that your owl arrived this morning. They’re up in the owlery now, settling in.”

Helena beamed. “Wonderful,” she said with relief, picturing her dear Philo nestling in among the other owls and falling into a deep sleep after such a long flight. She had been expecting him to come by any day since her own arrival.

McGonagall bid her a farewell (“Until the feast, then”) and disappeared, likely going to check that everything was in order with the kitchens. Helena and Flitwick wrapped up their tasks in the Great Hall, and then parted ways to each tend to their own things; Flitwick said something about needing to talk to Argus Filch, and Helena felt the need to ahead and start getting ready, despite that it was only just getting to be eleven in the morning.

In all her hurry, she hadn’t even been looking as she rushed around the corner. She collided with something--someone--and with a loud “oomph!” stumbled backward, immediately beginning to sputter out a hasty apology.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see--”

“Helena!” Hagrid’s cheery voice boomed over the top of her, and he clapped her on the shoulder so hard that her knees buckled. “How’s everythin’ been for yeh?”

Trying to wipe the embarrassment off her face--she couldn’t believe she’d run into somebody as unmissable as Hagrid--she mustered up a smile. “Just perfect,” she reported. “I do believe I’ve got enough lessons planned to last me ‘til Christmas!”

Hagrid gave a great laugh. “Christmas, eh? Blimey, that’s incredible. Say, could I get yeh to possibly work on my lessons for me?” Before Helena could answer, he burst out into laughter. “On’y kiddin’, on’y kiddin’, o’ course. . . Couldn’ ask you to do somethin’ like tha’ for me. . .” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind,” Helena burst, but immediately regretted it--she already had enough on her plate, so much that she would indeed mind. . . But she didn’t correct herself, as Hagrid didn’t give her the time to.

“That’s really alrigh’, you’re too kind. Anyway, nice seein’ yeh, Helena. Gotta go get things ready for the firs’ years. . .” And he trod off, leaving Helena by herself once more.

After taking a moment to recover from the run-in (her cheeks were still tinged with pink from embarrassment), Helena skittered down the steps toward the dungeons once more, bracing herself for the plunge into their marginally colder air. She dreaded to think how it might feel down there during the wintertime, but pushed the thought aside; that was a problem for tomorrow’s Helena. 

Washing up in a nice, hot shower was the trick to feeling a lot more confident about the imminence of tonight’s dinner. She was wistful for the days when she could waltz into the Hufflepuff baths, but knew better than to indulge now. It was better to make a habit of using her personal effects, otherwise she might get too cozy doing otherwise.

After the shower, there came the time to get ready for the feast. She didn’t exactly bring anything over-the-top per se, and so she settled for her nicest dress robes, hoping that they were enough to look presentable. She could picture McGonagall approving of them, which suddenly made her feel slightly boring, but she shrugged the feeling aside as she slid them on, knowing that it was no use poring over it.

Once she felt that she was dolled up enough to face the other professors, Helena made her way up the stairs. The students would be flowing in through the front doors of the castle any moment now.

When she reached the top step, she was greeted by a semi-busy seeming Great Hall; most of the professors had already congregated there, standing about the High Table with goblets already in hand, buzzing with a lively conversation that echoed off the walls. Above them stretched the enchanted ceiling, which revealed that the rain had stopped and the clouds had broken up just slightly, leaving patches of sky revealed in some places while shrouding others. The first years ought to be grateful for that, she thought.

As she approached the High Table, Professor Flitwick took notice of her. “Ah, Helena! You’re just in time!” He squeaked, picking up another goblet in his empty hand. He offered it to her. “Pumpkin juice?”

“Sure, yes please,” she accepted shyly, the idea that she was now technically Professor Flitwick’s coworker setting in. She brought the goblet up to her lips, taking a slight sip, so as to try and ease the awkwardness she suddenly felt. 

“You remember Helena, don’t you, Sybill?” Flitwick turned toward Professor Trelawney, whom Helena had honestly not noticed just moments before. She was unusually quiet, Helena thought to herself, but then she supposed it had been eight years since she last saw her. Too much can happen within that time.

Professor Trelawney’s eyes, positively magnified by her comical pair of spectacles, rested on Helena, practically goggling. She raised a familiar, shaky finger, and Helena braced herself. “It is lucky you are here with us this evening,” Trelawney drawled. “As I predicted so many years ago--”

Helena put her hand up. “I know, professor,” she cut her off, though she maintained a note of respect in her voice. “I remember. Can we recall about it later?”

Professor Trelawney slowly dropped her finger back down to her side. She swallowed and nodded begrudgingly.

Helena most definitely did not intend to go out of her way and indeed recall the prediction “later.”

Thankfully, before conversation could go on any further, McGonagall entered the room, a short, beat-up looking stool tucked beneath one arm and an even worse looking old hat beneath the other--the Sorting Hat. “Hagrid’s just about across the lake, now.”

“Where are the rest?” Helena wondered aloud. 

McGonagall positioned the stool in the middle of the room, where everybody could get a good view of the upcoming sorting. As she rose, she pulled back the left sleeve of her robes and checked her watch. “They should be here right about--”

The doors to the Entrance Hall could be heard opening, and a great chatter filled the air. 

“Now,” McGonagall finished.

In a sheer few moments, the students of Hogwarts began flowing in steadily, some hooting and hollering in excitement, others quietly making their way along. Helena was surprised at how many there seemed to be; she certainly had not realized their numbers when she was a student herself. 

And she was expected to teach them all?

Trying to ignore the way her palms had began to sweat--she didn’t know how Dumbledore had had the nerve to address such a crowd each year--Helena followed the other professors in suit as they began to take their seats. In her usual eagerness, she was keen to swipe a seat right beside McGonagall, but most unfortunately, Flitwick beat her to it. Instead, she settled on the one between him and Professor Sinistra, the Astrology instructor, which was okay enough. There was no time to waste on feeling disappointed.

She sipped on her pumpkin juice (a nervous habit--she felt as if she needed to look busy with something) whilst the second through seventh years took their seats. The minutes seemed to slide by at snail’s pace then, once everyone was settled, and this fact was worsened by the way Helena’s stomach began to growl--she could smell something delightful, and she debated on whether it was her imagination or the scent of the actual food wafting up toward them from the kitchens. Either way, it was torturous.

Once she decided that sipping on her pumpkin juice continuously might look ridiculous, Helena decided to set the goblet aside and survey the High Table. Professor Flitwick was looking rapt in the midst of an intense conversation with Professor Trelawney now. Professor Binns was slouched in his seat, staring boredly out at the sea of black hats bobbing around atop the heads of the students. Professor Sinistra was sketching the night sky beneath the table. . . and two seats were empty. Three, if you counted McGonagall’s--but she was standing in view before the table, looking all the more refined in the spotlight. Who was missing?

Helena did not have time to ponder this question, because at that very moment, Hagrid burst in, leading a pack of first years with a smile on his face. It was incredible to see the first years from this perspective, as Helena was able to truly appreciate just how little she had been when she’d first came to Hogwarts herself. It was no surprise to see most of them looking bewildered, confused, or--well, there was a pleasant thing to see--excited.

“Single file, please,” McGonagall ordered them around, stepping toward them all so as to arrange and direct them. “Yes, wonderful. Greetings to you all. My name is Professor McGonagall, the Transfiguration teacher here at Hogwarts. The start-of-term feast will commence here shortly, but before you can be seated, you shall each be sorted into your Hogwarts Houses. This is a very sacred, important ceremony--the people within your respective house will serve as something like a family during your stay here at the school. You’ll have classes with them, sleep in your dormitories with them, and spend most of your down time in your house common room with them.”

The first years ate up each and every word with the most attentive looks Helena had ever seen on any eleven year olds’ faces.

“There are four houses: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. Each commands its own predominant values, and will surround you with bright witches and wizards who carry a similar mindset to your own. During your time here, your excellencies will earn you points, which will be added up for the House Cup at the end of each academic year.” McGonagall assumed a stern voice, and added, “Rulebreaking will not be tolerated, and will lose you a good amount of points considering the offense. You do not want to be the person responsible for your entire house falling behind in such a competition.”

Helena could see one or two of the young ones shrinking back, as if they were being scolded for something they hadn’t done. She couldn’t say she blamed them; McGonagall’s intensity was an acquired taste, and took some getting used to.

McGonagall paced over to the stool. The dirty old Sorting Hat stood up tall upon it. Helena resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose at the sight of it; it had barely changed since her time there at the school, except for the fact that it maybe had a few more rips along the brim. Considering that it was hardly touched but for once a year, she wondered how on earth they got there.

“When I call your names, I want you to come sit upon this stool and place the Sorting Hat upon your head. It will determine which of the four houses you belong to most. After that, you may join your house table.” She seemed to have spotted the worry on their faces. “Don’t fret about being lost--I am sure that your house will be cheering you on. . . loudly.”

From the pocket of her cloak, she withdrew a rolled up bit of parchment, which she unraveled and gripped with elegance. Before starting to read aloud the names, however, she turned toward the rest of the Great Hall. Releasing the bottom of the scroll and letting it curl back up a bit, she pulled out her wand as well. “Sonorus,” she uttered, and pressed the tip to her neck.

“Ladies and gentleman!” She called over the tops of everybody’s voices. Immediately, the buzz died down. McGonagall gave a tight smile. “The Sorting Ceremony is about to begin. If I could please ask that you remain respectively quiet for our newcomers, and cheer them on when sorted into their houses. Thank you.” She pulled her wand away from her neck, canting, “Quietus.”

The talking did not resume, and instead, the sea of faces remained turned up toward the stool and High Table. As McGonagall read aloud the first name on the list (“Acker, Marie!”) Helena stole a look at the expanse of students, in which revealed a few dotted here and there that were pointing up to her, whispering in their friends’ ears.

She had expected this, of course. New teachers had always been in rotation when she was their age; their placement had always been the topic of gossip for the first few weeks of school. Especially so when Slughorn had shown up in her fifth year, and everyone but the Slytherins was dejected to see that Snape had finally assumed the position as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

She looked away now, back to “Acker, Marie,” who had just been sorted into Hufflepuff and was now making her way to the cheerful table, blushing madly. 

“Braly, Rowan!”

The Great Hall waited with bated breath. Helena reached for her pumpkin juice as “Braly, Rowan” was being sorted into Ravenclaw.

“Clawthorne, Edalyn!”

Helena fumbled with the goblet a bit and, by accident, it slipped from her hands. The goblet hit the table before her with a loud, very much disturbing clang! which led to a large number of students averting their attention to her. Some of the first years jumped at the sound; McGonagall turned to see what had happened.

Helena’s heart began to race; her ears filled with blood and got very hot. “S-sorry,” she stuttered out, trying to bear a grin. “My bad.” With slick palms, she pulled out her wand and began to busy herself by muttering spells to clean up the mess, which had spread over the wood and tablecloth of the table and onto her lap. Nobody had a chance to say anything as the Hat had reached its decision.

“SLYTHERIN!” It shouted, breaking the awkward silence up around them all. As Edalyn scampered off toward the Slytherin table, Helena slouched in relief against her chair. Most of the attention had been taken off of her.

She barely paid attention to the rest of the Sorting after that, hardly registering where each child was going unless they were in Hufflepuff. She kept her arms to her sides now, clapping politely when it was called for and not daring to do anything else. She figured she had humiliated herself enough for one day. 

She just needed to relax, really, she told herself as McGonagall went to stow the Sorting Hat and stool away and a conversational buzz simmered amongst the students. She took a deep breath and steadied herself, attempting to look as dignified as possible up there at the front of the room. McGonagall returned to her place at the front and center, commanding the attention of the pupils as if she were on a stage. She raised her hand up slightly. Quiet.

It took a few moments, but a hush swept over them once more. They waited for her to speak.

“Dig in,” she said simply, and excitement prickled like electricity as all of the tables filled with a delectable amount of different entrees. Immediately, Helena began to pick out some of her favorites; lamb chops and roast potatoes and peas, Yorkshire pudding and carrots and oh--peppermint humbugs.

Marveling at the plate full of food, Helena began to tuck in, starting with the roast potatoes. McGonagall had just taken her seat down the row.

The two seats beside her remained empty. Now that she had the time to think about it, Helena distracted herself by pondering who they might belong to whilst working away at her food. She did a quick, silent headcount. There was Professor Flitwick, for Charms. . . McGonagall, Headmistress. . . Hagrid, gamekeeper. . . 

Before she could go on any further, a ruckus sounded from the other end of the table, as the door leading to the back room swung open and bounced against the wall. From behind it stalked out two figures with huge, grinning faces, and Helena had to do a double take, mouth dropping when she recognized who they were. Before anyone could notice (she’d been in the middle of a bite of potatoes, and the look of them hanging out of her mouth was rather unflattering on her), she clamped it shut.

Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom made their way down to the empty chairs, bidding individual “hellos” to McGonagall, who turned and began to speak to them. Over the garble of the entire room, Helena could not make out for the life of her what was being said, but it was surely something friendly, because Harry’s reply (he had sat in the chair right beside McGonagall) made her erupt into a short bout of laughter.

Helena’s eyes traveled to Neville now. He hardly looked familiar, nothing like the boy she had gone to school with. The best phrase for it was that he had simply grown into himself, she supposed, having gotten a bit taller and broader. And he walked. . . He walked with a sort of confidence now, rather than cower. She remembered the days in the halls wherein she’d seen him, disorganized and askew most of the time, slouched over most of the time so as to keep a low profile. And then the last time she’d seen him was at the Battle. . . She could barely remember this, though; far too much of that night was nothing but a blur of color and death. . .

She shook her head and started in on her peas. About this time was when students began to notice that Harry Potter was sitting up at the table, rapt in conversation between himself, Neville, and McGonagall, and some began pointing or gawking up at him. One thing Helena had to thank Harry for was that perhaps, with his arrival, the kids would forget her little goblet incident.  
But where had they been for the entire beginning of the feast, she wondered? She supposed it was none of her concern, but her days in school with Harry reminded her of how much trouble used to trail behind that boy. . . Why, in her first year he’d spontaneously arrived in a flying car rather than taken the Hogwarts Express with the rest of them for goodness’ sake. And then there was all that Sirius Black drama. . . and the Triwizard Tournament. . . and Dumbledore’s Army. . .

Dumbledore’s Army. That had been such an experience. She had relied more on Harry for an education than their own Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher that year, Umbridge. Just thinking about that wretched woman made Helena want to scrunch up her nose in disgust, even after all these years. . .

As the evening wore on and the feast began to dwindle down in all its excitement (Helena was quite relieved they were nearing an end; she was stuffed and simply could not wait to go to bed), McGonagall got to her feet and once again caught the attention of the student body.

“I am sure you are all anxious to get to your dormitories,” she addressed them, “But before I can dismiss you, I have a few announcements, if you’ll please be patient.” She cleared her throat. “The Hufflepuffs have a new Head of House this year, and you all incidentally have a new Potions professor. Ms. Borington”--McGonagall turned to Helena now--“if you please.” 

Taken off guard, Helena rose from her seat and gave the students a shy wave. Hufflepuff was the loudest with their welcome; the other houses only clapped out of politeness rather than to be encouraging. 

“Thank you,” McGonagall said, more to her than the students. Helena nodded and scooted back into her seat. McGonagall resumed speaking to the crowd. “You all will also be joined by a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this year, Mr. Harry Potter.”

McGonagall barely had any time to finish her sentence as the Great Hall erupted. Many of the students were screaming and shouting; Gryffindor House banged on their table and stomped their feet rather rambunctiously. Harry hadn’t even risen from his seat--he only smiled and waved, a slight red tinge to the tops of his ears, which stuck out beneath a head of unruly black hair. 

The cheering went on for quite some time, and McGonagall eventually had to raise her hand once more to avert the attention back to her. “Mr. Filch reminded me to inform you all there is a list on the staffroom door in which details all the items banned from the school this year. This list includes the likes of fanged frisbees, love potions, and, interestingly enough, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.” Helena would have never thought she’d do it, but she swore she saw McGonagall crack a smile--Filch wasn’t exactly the type of bloke anyone took very seriously, and Helena knew that these trouble-makers especially wouldn’t. “Any sight of these items will lead to their immediate confiscation.”

A murmur had begun to bubble yet again over the crowd. McGonagall didn’t bother quieting them this time, and rather raised her voice higher in order to be heard over the top. “Prefects! If you’ll please lead your houses back to the dormitories! Thank you!”

As the students rose from their seats, so did the professors. Helena watched as Harry and Neville sauntered off in the opposite direction she was supposed to be going, both of them grinning and immersed in conversation. She wondered if they’d seen her, or maybe recognized her from their time together in school. 

She filed away from the High Table behind Professor Sinistra, only parting from their uniform line to head down the stairs to the dungeons. When she reached the bottom, there was a backlog of Slytherin students crowding the hallway.

“Hey, aren’t you the Head of Hufflepuff House?” A smaller one asked curiously upon noticing her standing there.

“Er--yes, yes I am,” she responded.

“And you’ll be our Potions teacher?”

Helena nodded. “That’s right.”

“Cool,” the student breathed, and then their brows furrowed. “Say, shouldn’t you be upstairs with the rest of the Hufflepuffs?”

Helena wished. “No, no, I’m afraid not. My quarters are down here, near my classroom.”

“Oh,” the student said, and a confused look remained on their face. “Alright, then.”

After the crowd of Slytherins began to whittle away as they all entered their common room, Helena was able to slide behind them, pressed against the stone wall, until she reached the door of her own quarters. She slipped inside, relieved to finally be by herself.

From there, she stripped out of her dress robes (which were now a bit tight around the middle, owing to dinner) and slipped into her pajamas, quite ready for bed. Brushing her teeth felt like a more strenuous task than it really was, as well as removing her makeup. And then, when she was all ready for bed, laying with her face up to the ceiling, she realized something.

She could not sleep.

Classes were starting tomorrow. She was about to confront quite literally the entire student population, all of which would be relying on her to fill their empty heads with knowledge and education. There in the dark, she was able to picture it clearly. . . Every single face she’d seen tonight, up close, either hanging on to her every word or snickering at her from the back of the classroom. . .

She squeezed her eyes shut. Tomorrow had to be perfect. After all, she had spent half a month planning it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Just wanted to announce that "The Potions Master" has just hit 10k words! Ten thousand whole words! That's incredible! Thank you for the support so far, I would not be so motivated if it hadn't been for all the kind comments coming in! You guys are wonderful, and I can't wait to get the next chapter started for ya. Much love.


	3. A Familiar Face

Helena was peckish at breakfast the following morning. She had slept okay, at least, after she’d laid there for a while mulling things over. But now, her stomach felt awfully sick, almost as if it had completely flipped over. It was like being a first year all over again.

Most unfortunately, time has a habit of speeding up when one is dreading something, and this rule was applied no more differently to Helena. It was all really a blur--one moment, she was stepping out of bed, and the next, Neville Longbottom was passing schedules out to the students as they ate. As he began to near the last of the bulk of them, Helena decided it was time to slip down to her classroom and wait patiently for the bell to ring.

Now was the time to pull herself together. This would be a piece of cake, she told herself, all she’d have to do is regurgitate her knowledge back to the students, who would hopefully be listening. Today was only nerve-wracking because it was the first. By tomorrow, that band-aid will have been ripped off, and a routine will be in place. By next week, there would be a groove to be settled in, and by next month, why. . .

She’d have that right in the bag.

After she took a long, deep breath, Helena felt like laughing at herself. She was getting so worked up, and for what? She had been Hufflepuff House Prefect at one point, she reminded herself--that experience had certainly been a step out of her comfort zone. How was this going to be any different? In fact, it might even be easier, considering she had some years and wisdom on these students. . .

The sound of the bell above snapped her out of her thoughts. Here would come the first flock, stampeding down the stone steps, anxious to nab seats by their friends or at the front of the classroom. With another deep breath, Helena elongated her posture and stood up tall. The door to the room opened with a creak. . .

Quiet as mice, in little first years waddled, books clutched tightly to their chests and pale, focused expressions upon their faces. They looked just as skittish as she had felt just moments ago, Helena thought, and suddenly her nerves eased up even more so. There was nothing remarkable enough about a group of eleven-year-olds to be intimidated by, she figured, so she found herself plastering a warm smile on her face and gazing at them welcomingly. Some of them returned the notion, though in a very brisk fashion.

Once the last bit of them had trickled in, Helena gave a flourish of her wand and shut the door from her desk. 

“Good morning,” she greeted them all kindly. Some of the students shuffled uncomfortably in their seats. She cleared her throat. “My name is Professor Borington, and I am pleased to see you all here at Hogwarts with us this year. I know how some of you must feel right now--overwhelmed, maybe a bit out of place, or even excited at all this. . . newness.” The words came more comfortably now, and Helena finally began to feel as though she were in her element. She began to pace the aisles between the desks. “Believe it or not, you and I are in the same boat,” she told the children, who all stared at her with big, innocent eyes. “It’s my first year here, too. And though some of you might be quite familiar with the wizarding world”--she eyed one who looked somewhat bored by this speech--“or have siblings who have come along here before you”--and another who had all-too-familiar fiery red hair--“that does not take away from the fact that this is your first day here, too.” She noticed that some of the color had returned to a few of their faces. “I’ll tell you right now,” she grinned, “my time as a student here were some of the best years of my life. It’s okay to be nervous now, but just know that by even tomorrow, most of you will begin to feel more at home.”

Helena began to wonder if she was talking more to the kids or herself. She pushed the idea aside as she returned to the front of the room.

“Shall we get started, then? Let’s have a little pop quiz.”

The class groaned. Helena smiled mischievously. “C’mon now,” she goaded them, “you’ll warm up to me; I know it’s not everyone’s favorite thing in the world, but you’ll find that my pop quizzes aren’t just for my own satisfaction. Now, can any of you tell me at least one use for dragon blood?”

At first, there were only crickets and blank stares. But then, from the back of the room--

“Oh, oh! I know!” A young girl sporting an afro reached her hand up high towards the ceiling. It was almost as if she were trying to levitate from her seat. 

Helena leaned against her desk, glad to see somebody ambitious to learn. “What’s your name, dear?”

The girl put down her hand. “Geradine,” she answered. “Geradine Vance. And your answer is that dragon’s blood can be used as oven cleaner.”

Helena opened her mouth to confirm this to the class, but another one of the students beat her to it. “Oven cleaner?” He asked in utter disbelief, scrunching his nose up.

“That is indeed correct,” Helena agreed, moving to write the answer down with chalk on the blackboard behind her. “Surprisingly, much of what we know that dragon blood can help with is more of. . . mundane sorts of tasks. Previous Headmaster Albus Dumbledore found that it can be used for the following: Perfume, ink, medicine, dye, incense, painting pigment, toothpaste, general spells. . . It can staunch bleeding”--the chalk was now writing on its own accord as Helena began to walk around the classroom once more--“can cure ulcers, reduce fevers, and act as violin resin. If you could all please copy that list from the board now, that would be splendid.”

There was a general rustling noise as all of the students moved to pull out some parchment and their quills. Helena paused in the middle of the room.

“Miss Vance, what is your House?”

Geradine looked up at her with a twinkle in her dark brown eyes. “Slytherin, ma’am.”

Helena nodded. “Five points to Slytherin, for Miss Vance’s eagerness.”

Two Slytherin boys in the back high-fived in quiet celebration, and Geradine blushed at their elation.

After that, her first lesson quickly evolved into a freefall of ease; by the end of the hour, she had most of the kids broken out of their shells (maybe not all the way, but just enough to get the ball rolling), and was quite confident in both herself and them by the time the bell rang for dismissal. Then came the second block, which was full of third years, who were a little more difficult to get involved but not too much so. 

Just when she was really getting comfortable with things, there came the third block, bringing with it a class of rowdy, rambunctious fifth years. As they all settled in, she didn’t know where to begin.

As she contemplated how to address the buzzing room, one of her students started in for her. She was taken aback by how relaxed he seemed, kicked back with his legs outstretched in front of him, ankles crossed over one another. “So, Professor Borington, are you gonna be any better than that old bat Bringham?”

A couple of his mates chuckled, and he flashed an annoyingly white smile, which was only brightened even more so by his brown skin.

“I would hope so,” Helena shrugged, trying not to reject his attitude but rather simply return it. 

“Yeah, us too. Do you know how much of a snooze that guy was? Plus, he didn’t even look that great. You, however. . .” He wiggled his eyebrows. Some of the girls in the class rolled their eyes while others let mischievous smiles spread across their faces. 

Helena crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly appearing stern. She had gone to school with boys like this--her reaction came all too naturally. “What’s your name, young man?”

“Griffin Pritchard,” he answered, holding his hand out. His black hair stuck out at odd angles. “What’s your first name, Ms. Borington?”

“Helena.” She did not shake it.

“Like Rowena Ravenclaw’s daughter?” A small voice from the back peeped.

Helena shrugged. “Sort of. Not really. I’m a Hufflepuff and in no way connected to the Ravenclaws.” Helena furrowed her brows. “Who said that?” She began to search for the student who had spoken.

“I did,” a girl with a Ravenclaw tie said, still quiet, raising her hand up just a little bit. Griffin turned to face her. 

“Dane Heracles,” he grinned flirtatiously, looking her up and down. “I didn’t know you were in this class.”

Dane looked down at her desk, tucking her hair behind one ear. 

“Well, Griffin,” Helena cut in, averting his attention back to her, “it’s nice to have you in my class, but I do hope we won’t have any trouble this year.” She could deal with someone ornery, but there was only so far she could let it go. 

Griffin put his palms up in a mock surrender. “No trouble from me, Professor. I’ll be the best student you get, I’ll swear it on my mum.”

Helena smirked. “You have to admit that you haven’t exactly started off on the right foot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The boy asked playfully, leaning forward on the desk now.

Helena would let him do the work on that one. She had a class to get started. “Okay--morning everyone.” She gave a short wave to the rest of the room. “As we’ve already covered, thanks to Mister Pritchard here, I am Helena Borington, your new Potions professor.” Upon rounding off the sentence, Helena spotted one of the fifth years already seeming to drop off to sleep in the back of the room. She started to say something, but to her surprise, Dane Heracles was already moving to shake him awake. Resuming her original train of thought then, Helena went on, though she seemed to be losing a bit of confidence now. “I’ve already reviewed much of what you all have covered so far, and it seems like Professor Bringham did a remarkable job of keeping you all on course with your education. However, I wanted to see if any of you felt the need to go back to some basics before we moved on. Anyone?”

Griffin gave a comical yawn. The rest of the class stared ahead.

“Nobody?” Helena asked. “Okay, then. I suppose we’ll get on with our first official lesson, then. How about a little pop quiz?”

This class was not nearly as vocal with their disappointment at these words, and instead slumped down a little in their seats in an obviously annoyed silence, which somehow made the whole deal less fun. She began to wish she was back with the first years, having the time of her life. Teenagers were a whole lot more. . . miserable, to say the least.

“Can any of you tell me what moonstone, otherwise known as ‘Wishing Stone,’ can be used for in brews?”

Two hands surprisingly went up then, and then, very slowly, a third one, in the back. Helena realized it was Dane, and decided to give her a chance.

“Miss Heracles, was it?”

The girl nodded, and lowered her hand. The other two girls that had raised their hands first looked very glum.

“Powdered moonstone can often be used in the Draught of Peace,” Dane explained in a barely audible tone. She didn’t look Helena in the eye, and rather fiddled with a shred of parchment before her. “And also Love Potions, or Amortentia.”

“Very good,” Helena beamed, and glanced down at Dane’s tie. “Five points to Ravenclaw, for Miss Heracles stepping out of her comfort zone.” Dane’s cheeks went pink as she lifted one hand to the blue and silver-striped knot at her neck. 

As the chalk against the blackboard drew up Dane’s answer, Helena moved on to another question. “What about the Draught of Peace brew? What can that be used for?”

The same two girls that raised their hands before did so once more, this time sitting up a bit taller. Helena chuckled. “I feel like I’m gonna have a lot of fun with you two. How about heads or tails for it?”

Some of the students’ eyebrows knit together. Others, however, looked completely understanding. 

“Does anybody happen to have a quarter?”

“What the bloody hell is a quarter?” A boy with messy blond hair asked, but the student behind him leaned forward, offering one in her hand.

The boy turned and looked at her with confusion. She shrugged as Helena took it from her, explaining, “My mum always makes me take some Muggle money with me when I come to school, just in case.”

“I would say that your mum is quite smart to do so. However,” Helena added with a wink, “Hogwarts is one of the safest places to be in the wizarding world, you know.”

The girl scoffed. “My mum was in her seventh year when Harry Potter was in his second. Need I say more?”

Helena laughed at this, but didn’t respond. “You, to the right--heads or tails?”

The girl she’d pointed at moved to take her foot out from beneath her bottom on the chair. “Er--tails?” She said, though she looked rather bewildered.

“Alright, then.” Helena flicked the coin up with her thumb, caught it in midair, and laid it flat on the back of her wrist. “Heads!” She turned to the girl on the left, who was wearing a triumphant, almost sneering smile. “What can the Draught of Peace brew be used for? Go!”

Looking smugly to the other girl, this girl relayed information like a textbook. “The Draught of Peace relieves anxiety or agitation.” She then added, “I hear Madam Pomfrey gives it out to students for their O.W.L.s., y’know.”

“That just sounds like the magical equivalent of marijauna to me,” a student near the front commented, and a few of the boys surrounding him laughed.

“Oh, come off it,” Helena warned, “you know I’ll have to write you up to McGonagall if you say more comments like that.” She knew he had only been joking, but she could not imagine it going over very well if McGonagall found out she let that sort of stuff slide.

The boy who had said it dropped his smile and cleared his throat. “Sorry, Professor.”

“That’s quite alright. Now, hon”--she turned her attention back on the first girl--“what was your name?”

“Veronica Stybeck, ma’am. Ravenclaw.” Veronica pointed to her tie. “And that’s my sister, Autumn. She’s in Gryffindor.”

“Sibling rivalry then?” Helena suggested with intrigue, pouting her lip and raising her brows. “Seven points to Ravenclaw, for the correct answer, and five to Gryffindor for trying.”

Autumn grinned as Veronica remained looking smug toward her sister. 

“Alright now, pop quiz over. I want you to pull out your books and turn to page three hundred and ninety-four. A bit of parchment and a quill might do you all some good, too.”  
For the rest of the third block, Helena had the whole of the class reading over the Draught of Living Peace, taking notes on its recipe (“No homework for tonight if you take notes now,” she instructed. “And I advise you do--we’re going to be brewing this for tomorrow’s lesson.”) When the bell finally rang throughout the school, most of the students made a beeline to leave the room, eager to grab some lunch. Before she could get far, Helena caught the student who had leant her the quarter.

“May I keep this?” She asked her, flashing the coin in the torchlight. “I have a feeling we’re gonna need it for those Stybeck sisters.”

“Sure thing, Professor,” the girl beamed. “Trust me, I’ve got plenty more.”

“Thanks,” Helena nodded, and the girl made to leave. Helena stopped her again. “Your name, hon?”

“Nils Lefay.”

“Thank you, Miss Lefay.” And she sent her off, figuring she’d probably very much like to leave now. Helena placed the coin on her desk.

Now was the time to relax. Unfortunately, however, she had been instructed by McGonagall to come visit her halfway through the day to give a report on how she was settling into her lessons. So, after freshening up and getting her classroom back in order for the next class--due at one o’clock--she made her way up to the Headmistress’s office, traveling through a mostly deserted castle owing to most everyone being in the Great Hall, save for a sparse amount of last-minute stragglers and Peeves, whom Helena could hear making a great racket in one of the classrooms.  
As she made her way down the third floor corridor, though, there came a familiar voice from behind her, startling her. 

“Helena Borington,” Harry Potter mused, and she turned to face him. He was leaning against the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom’s door, arms folded casually against his chest. He wore a friendly smile, and his green eyes twinkled from behind his signature black, round-rimmed glasses. He stepped forward, offering a hand out to shake. Some of his hair moved in just the right way, revealing the iconic lightning-shaped scar that had haunted him for so many years.

Helena moved back toward him now, a gentle smile on her face, and took it. He shook firmly, warmly. “Harry,” she greeted.

“What a sight for sore eyes. How’s your grandfather?”

Helena’s smile turned slightly sad. “Well--uh--he’s passed away. Shortly after the Battle.”

“Ah, my bad.” Harry sucked in through his teeth. “I’m sorry to hear about that.”

Helena waved him away. “That’s quite alright. You couldn’t have known.” She hurried to change the subject--what an awkward start. “How have you been? Life treating you fairly?”

“About as fair as it can,” he chuckled humorlessly. “It was lucky I came by this whole deal.”

“Yeah, I thought you were in the Ministry?” Helena realized, drawing her brows together. “Did that not work out?”

“I only worked as an Auror to round up the last of Voldemort’s followers,” Harry explained. “I’ve actually just come from a stint as a Wimbourne Wasp. I heard this position was open and decided it was time to change things up a bit.”

“Oh, well that’s good to hear! Me too.”

Harry raised a brow. “You too?”

“Sort of. I’ve been in and out of a variety of jobs since I graduated. But then I happened to hear about Potions opening up. . . I just had to get it, of course.”

“Potions, eh? How are classes in the dungeons?” He teased, and Helena felt exasperated at it.

“I’d. . . rather not talk about it right now,” she sighed and laughed. “Cold, though.”

“I bet.” Harry shook his head. “Classes down there with Snape and the Slytherins were the worst.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Helena shrugged, “I had class with the Ravenclaws. But I suppose having Snape and the Slytherins at the same time was quite the chore.”

“More than that.” Another humorless laugh bubbled in Harry’s chest, causing him to give a sort of half-scoff. It was his turn to change the subject. “Anyway--where are you off to?”

“McGonagall’s office,” she said. “Got to give her a rundown on how I’m adjusting.”

“Say, she asked me to do the same thing. I can accompany you, if you like,” he offered, and Helena was shocked. Not because she had ever figured Harry Potter as necessarily impolite when they were in school, but more like caught up in his own bubble. And Helena had never been a part of that bubble, unless you counted Dumbledore’s Army.

“I think that would be lovely,” she accepted, and together they made their way down the hall to the gargoyle that guarded McGonagall’s office steps. 

“So--teaching Potions. I’m surprised.”

“Oh, yeah? And why’s that?” Helena stared straightforward--oddly enough, she felt intimidated. Of course, being a year younger than him, Helena supposed she had always felt intimidated by him. He had been known as the Chosen One for most of his life, after all. And, besides his fighting the most powerful Dark Wizard in their history, he had been so admirable during his time in school--leading Dumbledore’s Army, playing as the heroic Seeker on the Gryffindor House Quidditch team, winning the House Cup for Gryffindor most every year. . .

Her accomplishment as a Hufflepuff House prefect paled--no, practically disappeared--in the shadow of Harry Potter.

But of course, it was ridiculous to feel that way. After all, they barely knew each other, she reminded herself. There was no plausible reason for someone like her to feel so undermined by the Boy Who Lived. . . right?

Right.

“It’s just that Snape didn’t exactly strike me as the most. . . encouraging Professor. I’m not sure how anybody could have worked with the education he gave us. That’s all.”

Helena would agree with this. “It was right near lucky I had Professor Swoopstikes on my side.”

“Professor Swoopstikes?”

Helena could tell he was beginning to wrack his brain for some memory of this unknown professor. She laughed. “He was one of Hogwarts’s previous Potions masters. There’s a portrait of him hanging in the library, down the row where you can find books on the topic. I consulted him for most of my advice.”

“Ah,” Harry drawled, shoving his hands in his dress pants pockets. “I see. I’ve got to say, that does sound pretty sneaky of you to do.”

“Not sneaky,” Helena corrected wittingly. “More like. . . resourceful. Ah, we’re here.”

“Peppermint humbug,” Harry pitched to the guard of a gargoyle, which swung open at the sound of the apparently new password. He leaned toward Helena. “Changes every week or so.”  
“Hmm,” Helena acknowledged as they ascended the steps.

The pair of them were greeted by the sight of McGonagall poring over her desk, scribbling away madly at some note. Upon hearing them step into the room, McGonagall was quick to finish off her last sentence and remove her spectacles from atop her nose, sitting back most exhaustively in her seat. After a deep breath, she smiled feebly at them. “Helena and Harry,” she said, motioning to the two leather seats that usually sat before her desk. “If you please.”

Helena sat as though a rod was in her back, attempting her best to look proper and respective of McGonagall. Harry, on the other hand, was very loose and casual, leaning forward with both elbows propped on his knees. He was smiling. Helena figured it’d be best if she smiled, too.

“Well,” McGonagall nodded at the two of them. “How goes it so far?”

“Like a dream, Professor.”

“McGonagall, Mr. Potter.”

“Er--sorry, Professor. Anyway, it’s been nothing but a breeze all morning.”

“Any trouble students?”

Harry shrugged, thinking hard. “Not that I can say.”

“Good,” McGonagall beamed pleasantly. “Very good to hear. And your lesson?”

“Covered ghosts with my first years. Though that wasn’t really planned--they all had a lot of questions about Nearly Headless Nick and the other lot. Then with my third years I talked about boggarts--say, you wouldn’t happen to know of one in the castle, would you? I’ve been thinking about taking a page out of Lupin’s book, so to speak.”

“I do,” Helena piped up. “I banished it from my extra supplies cabinet just about two weeks ago. I’m sure it’s probably moved on around here somewhere.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep my eye out for it,” Harry grinned boyishly at her, and before Helena could give him a “you’re welcome,” he continued on. “And then I started the fifth years off by introducing defensive charms. I think they liked that.”

“Perfect,” McGonagall praised, and Helena could see quite clearly upon her face that she was thoroughly pleased so far. “And how about you, Ms. Borington? Settling in quite nicely?”

“I would say so,” Helena started. “Except--well, are either of you familiar with a Griffin Pritchard?”

“No,” Harry said at the same time McGonagall sighed a deflated “Yes.”

“Griffin’s not exactly a bad student, but he most definitely will give you a run for your money,” she said. “Why--did he give you trouble?”

“Not exactly,” Helena shook her head, “no. He’s just rather. . . vocal, is all. I had a bumpy start to my third block because of his being a loose cannon.”

“I was afraid of that,” McGonagall pressed her lips together. “A word of advice, Ms. Borington?”

Helena leaned forward to show that the Headmistress had her utmost attention. 

“Griffin Pritchard is only an ornery boy. He can be fiendish, but only in good fun. Now, I am certainly not advising that you allow him to run you over, of course. All I will say is that to work with him would likely bring about a better outcome for both you and him. His grades plummeted when we brought Professor Bringham in; the two of them had such a rivalry that you cannot even begin to comprehend--”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Harry said under his breath. 

“But I have faith that you’ll be able to bring him back ‘round. Now, how about the rest of your classes, hm?”

“Oh, just perfect,” Helena smiled again. “I do believe the first years are growing used to me already, and my third years are getting there. The fifth years were. . . Well, they seemed uninterested for the first few minutes we had together, but I did my best to get through to them. A few of them even seemed quite eager to jump in after I gave them a nudge.”

About that moment, the bell echoed throughout the school. Had it been an hour already? No matter; classes would be resuming, the students would be flooding out of the Great Hall by the masses, and Helena was all the way up here. . .

“I am glad to hear all is going well for you two. I had no doubt in either of you, of course.”

“Of course, Professor,” Harry nodded. “Thanks again for such an opportunity.”

“Yes, thank you Professor,” Helena added hastily. “Truly.”

“It really is no problem at all,” McGonagall said as she moved to lean over the same parchment from before, sliding her rectangle spectacles back onto her face and plucking her quill from its inkpot. “Off you go to your classes, then--don’t let me keep you waiting.”

Harry and Helena bowed themselves out of the room, staying walking together in a silence now, until they reached Harry’s classroom door. Some students were already seated inside, chatting away, while others were flouncing down the hallway towards them.

“It was nice seeing you again,” Harry told her. “It’s always a relief to see a familiar face. Say, sit with me and Neville tonight for supper?”

Helena felt her heart flutter--not out of admiration nor romance, but rather because she thoroughly believed she had just quite possibly made a friend outside of her old Hogwarts professors. This possibility very much excited her, she realized.

So perhaps she had been a bit lonely.

“I’ll see you there, I suppose,” she smiled, and Harry dipped away then, into his classroom. Helena carried on, leaving the upper corridors and descending down, down, down, back into the dungeons. 

And, if she was being quite frank with herself, it didn’t bother her so much this time around.


	4. Neville Longbottom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small note, before you begin, to tell you all that we are nearing 25k words--and we're just getting started! Thank you for all the kind words and support! I seriously would not be so motivated without you. 
> 
> Alright, go enjoy this chapter. Because, trust me when I say this, you're gonna love it. And be sure to pay close attention! There's some important stuff here! And apologies if the formatting looks different--I uploaded in Rich Text rather than HTML this time. I'm new to AO3, so I hope this doesn't massively screw anything up. Okay. Much love <3

It felt as though the rest of Helena’s day slid by like a picture show set at top speed after lunch--the only time she felt as though it had slowed down was when she’d began to feel hunger pangs near the end of her classes, and simply couldn’t wait for supper.

Somehow, between her first class and her fifth, the seventh years had heard the first years talking about Potions class, and seemed uncharacteristically attentive during her lesson. She did not remember any of her classmates from school being so eager to answer questions--most went about their classes in a laze, save for Hermione Granger and sometimes Luna Lovegood. These kids--though she was sure that they were suffering what many might affectionately regard as “senioritis”--seemed to be giving it their all.

There was a particular set of seventh years in which impressed Helena the most; they were a quartet, sitting in close ranks with one another right at the front of the room. Three boys and one girl--a recipe for disaster, Helena had figured upon their initial arrival. However, they quickly disproved her hasty judgment. They worked well together, she thought fondly.

The girl, Anaid Herfinch, was especially adept at reciting recipes from heart. From the parchment that peeked out from her bulging schoolbag, Helena was able to deduce that Anaid took a copious amount of notes, a trait in which she identified with. Her table partner, Fars Melbinger, acted as her other half; he knew how to arrange the recipes, and which ways to cut which ingredients for a brew.

The other two--Tate and Rory Winstaff, twins--served as walls to bounce ideas off of, and raised questions that not many people had considered. The moment they crossed the threshold of the classroom, they had bombarded Helena with questions.

“Is it really all he says it is, or was he just pulling our legs?” Rory, with his enthusiastic green eyes, begged to know.

“I’ll bet he was just having a laugh,” Tate elbowed his brother. “But just in case--was Elijah lying or not?”

“Elijah?” Helena repeated, trying out the name, searching for a face to match it to in her memories. She hadn’t exactly done the expected introductions with her students today.

“A first year,” Rory elaborated. “Kind of short, stocky--Slytherin.”

A bell went off in Helena’s head--she supposed they were talking about the boy who had celebrated with his friend over the points Geradine had scored for their house. “Oh--yes, I know him. . . Is  _ what _ really all he says it is?”

“Your class!” Rory exclaimed. “He says you were  _ fun _ \--nothing like that git Snape that our parents told us about.”

Helena tried to remain humble, but a slight grin had begun to tug itself up at the corners of her mouth. “Well, I would sure hope I live up to the expectations. . . However, neither I nor Elijah can decide if my class is really all he says it is for you. Please, have a seat, and you can have your own verdict by the end of the period.”

The material for said lesson consisted of some of Helena’s personal favorites in which she felt she got a bit too carried away in talking about; Felix Felicis and Veritaserum and even a bit of banned content, such as Love Potions. She spoke of these subjects so as to refresh their minds and prepare them for the upcoming seventh year, and it was to her most pleasant surprise that most of the class seemed as if they had paid much attention to their previous professor. Helena even felt a bit deflated when the bell rang--despite that she was quite ready for a plate full of food--and was sad to see their lively conversation come to an end.

After the ringing of the bell, she took a few minutes to discipline herself--first she was off to straighten up her desk, then the students’ desks, and then eventually herself, gazing in the mirror to tuck some stray hairs behind her ears and wash her hands for dinner. 

When she entered the Great Hall, there was almost an immediate reaction from Harry, who seemed to have been anxiously waiting for her.

“Helena! Hey, Helena! Over here!” He was calling from down the long High Table, plate already stacked with steak and kidney pie and pudding and dessert cakes. Drawing her robes just a bit closer out of nervousness, Helena started to make her way to sit in the chair he was motioning to, having to slide behind a few other professors’ seats in the process. When she finally made it, she sat down with great relief.

“Hello again, Harry,” she greeted, pulling her plate to her and beginning to take her pickings from the buffet before them. 

“Evening to you too,” he grinned boyishly. He lifted a piece of steak and kidney pie to his mouth and chewed. “Still waiting on Neville,” he said with the bite in his cheek. “His classes ran late, I s’pose. Have some of the steak and kidney pie, the ghosts nailed the old recipe.”

Helena felt slightly revolted by the way Harry talked through his food, but not enough to turn down the suggestion for the pie. Though now she understood why Hermione could always be seen scolding him at their table--his manners needed a bit of work.

“There ‘ee is!” Harry exclaimed suddenly, causing Helena to look up. Neville Longbottom was striding down the aisle between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, wearing a crisp white button-down shirt tucked into a handsome pair of dark brown corduroys. Helena realized he wasn’t the only one dressed this way--Harry seemed to have ditched the idea of the usual robes wizards often wore. She suddenly felt very overdressed.

“Neville--you remember Helena Borington, don’t you?” Harry started as Neville had just barely begun to sit down. Neville leaned forward, looking around Harry and at Helena, who gave him a shy smile and a small wave.

“I believe so--we had fourth year Herbology together, if I’m not mistaken?” His big, curious eyes seemed to stare right through her soul.

“Not mistaken at all,” she confirmed. “I partnered with Hannah Abbott often.”

“And then you were in Dumbledore’s Army.” This was more of a statement than a question. 

“Yes--though to be quite honest, I never felt as though anybody saw me there.”

“Saw you?” Neville laughed, and Harry did, too. “You were one of the brightest witches in the room! Rivaled only by Hermione, of course.”

A slight blush had begun to creep across Helena’s nose and onto her cheeks. So, not only did they remember, but they had truly noticed her talent at the meetings--something she had highly doubted back then, having been scuffled to the side with her partner much of the time. “Thanks. You know--uhh--” Helena had almost started to compliment Neville on his leadership in running Hogwarts and the Army in the year of ‘97 to ‘98. However, she stopped herself--she didn’t know how Neville felt about talking about that time, that dreadful time, and did not feel like ruining the conversation when they had just started. She opted for a quick save. “I didn’t know you were teaching Herbology here at Hogwarts.”

Neville’s mouth was now full of mashed potatoes, so Harry spoke for him.

“Replaced Professor Sprout,” he said, jabbing his thumb at Neville as he wore a prideful smile over his friend’s accomplishment. “After the Battle--er--Sprout resigned and handed the position over to him. Said he’d be a much better option than her, getting in her old age. So of course McGonagall  _ had  _ to accept.”

“It didn’t quite go like that, Harry,” Neville corrected, though he was abashedly grinning. “For instance: Professor Sprout said  _ nothing  _ about her so-called old age.”

Harry shrugged. “It just felt appropriate to say.”

Neville smirked and rolled his eyes before allowing them to land back on Helena. They each had to lean around Harry to speak directly to one another. “So, how’d you come by this job?”

“Overheard the owners of Slug and Jigger’s over in Diagon Alley talking about the opening,” she shrugged. “I inquired about it, they laughed at me, and I set out to prove them wrong. It was very easy.”

“Ho-hooo,” Harry chuckled. “Very easy, huh?”

“Of course it was; If two blokes are willing to laugh at a stranger, I expect they’ve not got the brain cells to go out and be doing anything tremendously great, wouldn’t you say?” Neville commented. “That’s impressive, Helena. Just doing that on a whim.”

“I suppose you could say so. But, in my opinion, there was nothing impressive about my getting the position--just right near lucky.”

Neville’s brows knitted together. “And why’s that?”

“I knew McGonagall. She desired someone more  _ personal _ for the position, and I just so happened to be that. A majority of why she hired me was because she knew me, same as you. For all I know, if I hadn’t applied, one of those store-owners may have very well taken my spot.”

“Well, I for one am grateful they didn’t,” Neville sighed. “Those two are always assholes when I go in there. What is it with potions people being so pretentious?”

Suddenly, the air turned very awkward. Helena did not know how to respond; Neville’s eyes widened when he realized what he had just said. He put his hands up. “I--oh my gosh--I did not mean--”

And then, whether it was to break the tension or fill in the awkwardness, Helena began to laugh. She waved his apologies away. “That’s quite alright,” she forgave, “sometimes we really can be I suppose.” She glanced down at her watch then, sagging her shoulders when she realized what time it was. “This is the most unfortunate timing, but I’ve got to go.”

“Really?” Harry knitted his brows together. “Where to?”

Always the more curious he seemed to be. Helena began to gather her things. “I’ve got to make sure my lesson plans are in order for tomorrow--I’m really hoping to get the first years started on some practice potions.” She stood up, satchel strap slung over her shoulder now. “D’you think the kitchen ghosts would mind if I stole this plate for a little bit?”

Harry shook his head. “Prolly not.”

“Good,” Helena said as she snatched it up off the table. “Thanks for inviting me, Harry. It was nice to see you again, Neville.”

“You too,” Neville called after her as she whisked away. She could have sworn that she heard him say something like “d’you think I made her upset?” as she made her way back down the table.

She would have to let him know that he had not, indeed, made her upset at all. In fact, if anything, he and Harry had made her feel more normal, like a puzzle piece slowly starting to fit in.

* * *

Once she’d grown used to her new routine, Helena’s days slid by in a messy blur--September transitioned into a crisp, cool October, which subsequently brought about the excitement for the upcoming Quidditch season. Try-outs were due to be on the sixteenth, and it was all that most of her students could talk about. Over the noise of one class, just a week before try-outs, Veronica Stybeck was able to call out over the top of them: “Professor Borington! Did you ever play Quidditch?”

“I did,” Helena answered simply, and suddenly the attention of the entire class was on her.

“Told you,” Veronica turned and gloated to a nearby Nils, who glowered at her. “Now you owe me something from Honeydukes.”

“Something under five sickles, I’m not made of money,” Nils shot back. That was another point of classroom interest--the first trip to Hogsmeade would be on Halloween. The posters had just been plastered up the week previous. Helena was not in the roster of professors expected to chaperone, so she would be staying in to decorate the Great Hall with McGonagall.

“Tell us more,  _ Helena _ ,” Griffin pried from the front row. 

“Professor Borington,” Helena corrected him, calm yet pointed, as she leaned back against her desk. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. . . What position did you play?”

“Chaser.”

“Another something from Honeydukes!” Veronica exclaimed, and Nils looked positively irritated.

“You don’t get prizes just for knowing things your parents tell you, Nica,” she snapped, and Veronica’s face went red.

“Ladies,” Helena warned, sensing the hostility from Nils--perhaps she was having a bad day. They mumbled their individual “sorry, professors” and sank into silence.

“Win any games?” A boy beside Griffin--one of his buddies, Nicolas Rearden--asked, though Helena could tell by the smug look on his face that he already knew the answer.

“No,” she admitted. “Except one, and it felt like a cheat.”

“Why’s that?” Nicolas asked, though clearly not very interested to know. If Helena was being quite honest with herself, he was her least favorite student--way too cocky, to say the least.

“It was my second year--I was honored to be on the team by then, might I add--and it was a match against Gryffindor. Dreadful weather. They were leading, but we weren’t that far behind. Well, fortunately for us, I suppose, there were Dementors at the school that year--”

“Dementors?” Autumn Stybeck burst in disbelief. “For whatever reason?”

“Sirius Black’s escape,” Helena said lowly, thinking about Sirius Black himself with a heavy weight on her heart--it was a tragic story that had only come to light several years after his initial escape from Azkaban. “We thought--well, nevermind. Anyway, Harry Potter--”

“Of course,” somebody from the back commented, and it was all Helena could do not to laugh.

“Professor Potter to you all,” she resumed, “was. . . Well, he was attacked while looking for the Snitch. By the Dementors, that is. He fell about fifty feet off his broom. . . It’s a right miracle he survived,” she reflected. “Our Seeker, Cedric Diggory--” There was a familiar prickle behind Helena’s eyes that she ignored, blinking it back. That was easier to do now that time had worn on, of course. “He had caught the Snitch just before Harry hit the ground, which technically meant that we won. We wanted a recount, but it never happened.”

“That was the only time you ever won?” Nicolas smarted.

“Yep. But we always had fun no matter what was happening in our games.”

“So very Hufflepuff of you.”

“What, you think we’re soft?” Helena mused.

“I  _ know  _ you are,” Nicolas said, and much of the class gave each other bemused looks. They were fully enrapt in this interaction. Nicolas himself looked as if he were thriving on the discourse.

“Fine then,” Helena smiled. “Let’s strike up a bet, Mister Rearden.”

“Can you do that?” Nils raised her brows. “Like, as a professor?”

“It’ll have nothing to do with money,” Helena said before their imaginations could run wild. “How about if Hufflepuff wins a match this upcoming season, you have to do extra on your O.W.L.s for me. But if I lose, I give you a free day in class to do whatever you like--all of you.”

Nicolas contemplated this. “Hufflepuff wins  _ two  _ matches,  _ and _ I get excused from my O.W.L.s.”

“Can’t promise  _ that _ ,” Helena said honestly. “But  _ two _ matches it is.”

“Fine,” Nicolas caved. “Deal. Let’s shake.” He held out his hand, and Helena promptly shook it. After the bet was sealed, she turned and drew up a chart on the board. 

**House**

_Gryffindor_

_Hufflepuff_

_Ravenclaw_

_Slytherin_

| 

**Wins**  
  
---|---  
  
  
  


“And let everyone in this classroom bear witness to this,” she addressed them all. “Now, let’s get the ball rolling, shall we?”

That evening after classes were wrapped up, Helena decided that she was due for a head-clearing stroll around the lake. The weather had already transitioned into a brisk cold, and so she layered up with woolen socks, a peacoat, her grandmother’s old hand-knit scarf, and a hat that fit snugly over her ears. 

Stepping out onto the grounds, Helena was immediately basked in a bitter ray of autumn sunlight. There were a few students strolling about, encircling the lake or surveying the Quidditch pitch with their close-knit groups of friends. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets, descended the castle stairs, and began on her way toward the well-trodden path beside the lake, enjoying what the grounds had to offer. Upon gazing upward at the pale blue, nearly cloudless sky, she did not see one of the students making his way toward her.

“Professor!” He called after her breathlessly. “Professor Borington, wait up!”

Helena halted in her tracks and turned slowly on her heel to look where the voice had come from. A stocky boy, with tufty chestnut-brown hair atop his head, was puffing through red cheeks as he jogged to catch up to her. When he finally reached her, he paused, taking a deep breath with his hands on his knees, before introducing himself.

“Eddard Baxter, I’m in your fifth period class,” he huffed out, “ _ and _ I’m the Hufflepuff House Quidditch team Captain.”

“Take a breather, Eddard, no need to feel rushed,” Helena smiled calmly, somewhat amused by the appearance of her student. He seemed truly anxious to say whatever he needed to her.

“It’s just that--well I know you were Chaser for the team in your day,” he explained. “I wanted to ask if you’d be alright with giving the team a few pointers.”

“Oh?” Helena’s brows quirked up--what an odd coincidence.

“Yeah,” Eddard went on. “We’ve still not won the Quidditch Cup for quite some time, but I know there were a few close calls, and even a victory when you were on the team. My team, they’re--well--they’re dejected, Professor. They’re feeling discouraged because Gryffindor has laid us flat just about every year they’ve played. It would be an honor if you would give us just a bit of your time, come to our practices and--I dunno--maybe allow me to confer with you over strategies?” When he finished, he stared up at her with wide, bright, almost begging eyes.

Helena blew out a long, contemplative breath as she averted her gaze back up to the sky and thought hard. It would certainly give her an excuse to be more involved in the Hufflepuff House--perhaps she could even nudge them into winning the House Cup if all else failed. What was there to lose?

“I think I would like that very much, Mister Baxter,” she nodded finally, and Eddard broke out into a smile.

“Gee, thanks, Professor! It means a lot!” He seemed very relieved, and began to part ways with her. “That’s all I needed--enjoy your walk!”

“You’re welcome!” She called after him, but he was already halfway back to his group, who had been standing in the same place beneath a nearby tree for the entirety of their brief meeting. Shaking her head in a fond sort of way, Helena turned and began to walk again.

As it was already nearing four thirty, the sun began to sink rather rapidly, as in the span of a few minutes, it went from a near white color to golden, highlighting the lake and squid in a whole new way. Just as she started to make her way back towards the castle--supper had to be close now--Helena noticed that long shadows were casting themselves down from the Forbidden Forest and the Quidditch Posts that stretched like giants high into the air. Giving a shiver with the cold air this brought about, she traipsed up the now nearly-abandoned front lawn.

However, once she reached the midway point between Hagrid’s hut and the castle, she noticed that there was a black, shadowy mass of something near the edge of the Forest, off to the side--something she had never seen there before. She slowed her pace now, overtaken by a feeling of caution--was it a student? An animal? It stood so very still, and in the dim light she could not really make it out. One step forward she took, leaning forward just slightly and squinting her eyes to get a better look. It continued to be still.

And then a rustling noise reached her ears as the shape suddenly moved. Helena jumped, then recomposed herself--she couldn’t afford to be frightened. The shape was still moving. It unfolded itself now--it had to be a person, no doubt, somebody who had been bent over--but they moved in odd ways as they reached their full height. Especially their right arm.

“Excuse me?” Helena called out. “Do you need help?”

“Oh thank god!” A high-pitched voice wailed. Helena was taken aback--she was not expecting sobs like this to emit from such a daunting-looking figure. They moved to clutch their wonky arm. “Please--I’ve broken my arm!”

“What?” Helena exclaimed with instant concern, all fear dissipated into the near-frigid air. She hurried forward now, hands outstretched to inspect what she now saw was a girl at once. As she hurried closer, she realized it was none other than Anaid Herfinch.

“I-I-” Anaid blubbered as she offered the surely-broken arm to Helena. Helena was in shock--who could have left this poor girl alone with such an injury? And near the Forbidden Forest, nonetheless?

“Hush, now, it’s going to be alright,” Helena soothed her, pulling Anaid to her chest and stroking her hair so as to calm the crying girl down. “Come on now--I’ll take you to Madam Pomfrey. You can explain everything there.”

Carefully now, Helena began to lead Anaid across the rest of the lawn, toward the stone steps and into the Entrance Hall. In there, they could clearly hear much of the student body enjoying a nice meal, and Helena could feel Anaid’s mood deflate even further by the way her shoulders sagged and how she looked longingly toward the Great Hall’s arch. “Don’t worry,” Helena told her as they made for the hospital wing, away from the food. “I’ll bring you up a plate once you’re settled in with Madam Pomfrey--what are some of your favorites?”

At this, Anaid gave a slight smile, her paled face shiny with tears. “Yorkshire pudding,” she admitted with a gravelly voice. She attempted to clear her throat of phlegm, but it didn’t do her much good. “And steak and kidney pie.”

“Ah, one of Professor Potter’s favorites, you know,” Helena tried to cheer her up. “Speaking of Professor Potter--did you know that in his second year,  _ he _ broke his arm catching the Snitch in a game against Slytherin, and Gilderoy Lockhart charmed the bones right out of his body when he tried to fix it?”

“All of them?” Anaid asked, sounding both worried and curious.

“No, just the broken arm’s. When I tell you Madam Pomfrey was angry--whoo, she was  _ so _ livid. At least, that’s what I heard.” 

They were now outside the infirmary’s doors. Helena knocked firmly upon them, a doting hand still wrapped around the bicep of Anaid’s good arm.

Madam Pomfrey, looking about as strict as always, opened the doors a few moments later. Before Helena could even greet her, she started in about the sight. “Good gracious!” She exclaimed, immediately starting to fuss over and inspect Anaid. “Whatever happened?”

“I--” Anaid tried to start, pausing to wince as Madam Pomfrey’s fingers brushed over what Helena assumed was a rather tender spot. “I thought I saw something, I tried to cast a spell at it--”

“Saw something?” Madam Pomfrey’s eyebrows knitted together. “Whatever could you have seen that you would have wanted to blast like this?”

“I--” Anaid chewed her bottom lip as she looked around the room in uncertainty. 

“Well, never mind that then,” Madam Pomfrey eventually sighed, hands on her hips. “Follow me, would you?” She led Anaid into the cavernous room, to a vacant bed near the door. Anaid looked to Helena with a hesitant expression, but obeyed. “You just wait there, dear,” Madam Pomfrey instructed after Anaid had kicked off her shoes and climbed into the bed. “I’ll go get my wand.”

After Madam Pomfrey exited the room to her office, Helena put her hands behind her back. “You’ll be better in no time,” she assured the girl. “Madam Pomfrey knows what she’s doing. Yorkshire pudding and steak and kidney pie, right?”

Anaid swallowed dryly and rested her eyes on Madam Pomfrey’s office door. She nodded in response to Helena’s question, and then asked, “Will it hurt?”

Helena shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay.” Anaid didn’t seem so convinced, but there was no point in trying to make her believe what Helena said.

“Alright,” Helena filled in the silence that had settled over the room. “I’m off to go eat and get your food. See you in a bit, dear.”

Out of politeness to both Anaid and Madam Pomfrey, Helena shut the infirmary doors as gently as she could before taking off back towards the Great Hall. As she neared the room, she noticed that a good deal of the chatter had died down, and assumed that most of the students had returned to their dormitories after getting their fill. This was no problem to her--a quiet dinner was quite desirable after an event such as that. 

However, it seemed as though Neville and Harry had already eaten up their dinners and left as well, so Helena ate alone this evening, something she had not done since her first. It was lucky she had brought along her satchel, she thought then, as at least she was able to produce a bit of homework she needed to work on grading through anyway. As she picked over her food, she simultaneously drove a quill with red ink over students’ assignments, making sure to give them notes on where they needed improvements rather than just marking them up as wrong. This was something she had dearly wished Snape would have done for her, and even McGonagall sometimes.

Once her plate was empty, Helena stuffed the parchments away in her bag and made way for the kitchens for Anaid’s plate. She followed the familiar hallway towards the Hufflepuff dormitories, stopping just short of the common room door and turning in to the room. Upon her entry, she acknowledged that McGonagall had been right--it was absolutely frigid in the kitchen, with the amount of ethereal-looking ghosts hanging about. The Fat Friar, she saw, was over in the corner talking merrily to a few of his friends (or, at least Helena supposed they were his friends; she did not recognize these ghosts). Since she knew him, Helena approached him quickly.

“Excuse me!” She greeted him, and the Fat Friar snapped his attention from his conversation to her immediately.

“Helena!” He boomed in an outrageously friendly manner. “Well--it is quite nice to see you again! What’s it been, eight years?”

“Just about,” she grinned. “Listen, Friar, I need something--a favor.”

“Anything for the girl who made me  _ this _ .” The Fat Friar held up his wrist, flourishing a friendship bracelet Helena had made him when she first arrived at Hogwarts. She blushed deeply--she was in disbelief that he had kept it all these years. But then, she supposed, it wasn’t every day that students made gifts for their resident House ghost.

“I’ve got a student up in the infirmary right now--broke her arm. Could you make her a plate of leftovers to eat? She didn’t get any supper. She told me she prefers the Yorkshire pudding and steak and kidney pie.”

“Well, that’s easy!” The Fat Friar smiled jovially, and the other ghosts nodded. “Give us a few minutes, then?”

“By all means,” Helena agreed, and they all whisked off toward different stations around the kitchen. As she realized what they were doing, she piped up to reiterate, “You could just give her leftovers, you know,” as they began whipping up fresh food.

“Nonsense,” the Fat Friar waved this comment away. “A broken arm deserves something a bit more than that.”

Helena had to wait around for some time then, but eventually the ghosts of the kitchens presented her with a plate loaded down with food (“She can’t just have those two things!” the Fat Friar had insisted), and she was soon climbing the steps back up towards the infirmary. Her legs were starting to tire, but no matter--soon, she would be in bed, dreaming the night away. . .

The castle was deserted by now. In fact, it was almost haunting to have to wander the hallways with the moon just beginning to cast its silvery glow through the mullioned windows. Perhaps if she were with a friend, she would feel less spooked, but right now she was sure to be quick about getting back to Anaid.

Eager to be back in the comfort of people (though the silence had been nice, she had to admit), Helena knocked on the infirmary doors a little bit too ambitiously upon her arrival. When Madam Pomfrey opened them, she presented the plate to her, and was subsequently confused to see Madam Pomfrey shaking her head. “She’s already gone to sleep, Ms. Borington.”

“What?” Helena’s mouth dropped. She peered around Madam Pomfrey to see that, indeed, Anaid had drifted off to sleep, mouth hung slightly open, a light snore rumbling from her throat to her nose. Her arm was in a sling rather than a cast.

“Pretty wore out from the pain,” Madam Pomfrey explained. “I see it all the time. Here--I can cover this with some foil and save it for her tomorrow.” She took the plate from Helena, and then, instead of walking away with it, gave pause--her eyes surveyed Helena for a moment before she pressed her lips together thoughtfully. “Ms. Borington, you’ve come back as the Potions professor, correct?”

“Yes I have, Madam.” Helena did not think now was the time for smarting off--but what else was she to have been?

“Splendid. I need a favor.”

“Whatever you need, Madam.”

“I’ll need you to make me an extra stock of Draught of Peace, if you can. I went to give Miss Herfinch here some earlier, to calm her nerves about the pain, and made the unfortunate discovery that I’ve run completely out. Do you think you could do that for me? I’ll let McGonagall know so that she can provide you with some school-sourced funds to get any ingredients you might be short of.”

Helena had not been expecting to be asked for such a thing, but was nonetheless eager to please. “Well, of course!” She answered in kind. “Of course I can do that. Piece of cake.”

“Good. Thank you, Ms. Borington. I am extremely grateful to you for it.” Madam Pomfrey now glanced back over her shoulder, at the still-sleeping Anaid. “I should probably go, now. Get this wrapped up, and such.”

“Right. Goodnight, then,” Helena bade her, then started to make her way to her dungeons.

On her way there, she began to run through everything that Draught of Peace required, thinking hard to remember if she did indeed already have all the ingredients for such a concoction or not. And if she didn’t, maybe the stores of her classroom would. . .

On a regular basis, Helena would not have noticed the difference between the upper castle’s air and the dungeons’. However, when she finally found herself descending the stone steps (which were starting to get all slimed up again, thanks to the combination of foot traffic and the lake), a shiver ran up her back--it was quite cold. Here she shrugged her peacoat back on, as she had taken it off halfway through her second trip up the stairs to the infirmary. 

Once she was in her classroom, she conjured up a small fire in a jar--it would be best to get started on the Draught of Peace as soon as possible, she figured, and there was no point in putting up with the chill of the room while doing so. Out she brought one of the better cauldrons from her office, as well as the proper tools to chop, crush, or otherwise prepare her ingredients. 

From there, with the jar of fire following her in midair like an inanimate puppy, Helena turned to the stores to pull what she needed for tonight. Down the checklist she went; Moonstone, porcupine quills, unicorn horn. . .

But no hellebore. Helena glanced around the room again, to see if she perhaps mistakenly skimmed over it. Still no hellebore. She could curse--she would have to go out of her way to get some, all because some bloke neglected to restock. Sighing out, she collected the rest of the required ingredients, scooped them into her arms and dumped them back out near the cauldron upon her desk. She ran her fingers through her hair--hellebore. Where was she supposed to get hellebore?

Then, of course, the answer became much too obvious. She was begrudging about it--climbing the stairs once again did not sound all too appealing, but she supposed the exercise could do her some good. After a few moments of internal debate, Helena eventually snuffed out the fire in the jar and stored it away, heading back for the stone steps.

When she found herself finally outside the door of whom she needed, she found herself becoming anxious. It was late--perhaps she should wait until tomorrow, she thought. But no, it would be best done now, outside of classes, anyway.

With hesitancy, Helena knocked. On the other side of the door, she could hear somebody thumping around, and with heavy footsteps, they approached to open up for her. There was a clicking noise near the top of the frame, and the doorknob turned. 

“Helena!” Neville Longbottom exclaimed as he appeared from behind it, his hair stuck out at odd angles, as if he’d been running his hand through it just moments before. He seemed genuinely surprised to see her there. “What can I do for you?”

“Sorry to bother you, Neville,” Helena apologized, shoving her hands in her pockets and looking down, slightly embarrassed. “It’s just that I need a special favor.”

“Which is?”

“Hellebore,” Helena said. “I need some. And I know the greenhouses have got to have a bit.”

Neville smiled and leaned over, plucking something off of his office wall that jangled. He leaned back into the doorway then, brandishing a set of tinkling keys on a ring. “Lucky for you, they indeed do. Follow me?” He pushed himself out of his office then, shutting the door behind him and beginning to lead Helena down the hallway. Hurrying after him, Helena felt an overwhelming sense of gratefulness for his being so willing to share.

“Thanks so much, I was worried I was going to have to--”

“It’s really no problem. Though, if you don’t mind my asking, what do you need it for?”

“Madam Pomfrey needs a batch of Draught of Peace, see. She’s plum out. Poor Anaid Herfinch had to undergo a bone-breaking spell without any to aid her pain, so I figure I’d better get started on some here quick.”

“Anaid Herfinch?” Neville went on conversationally as they neared the Entrance Hall. “What did she do?”

“You know, I’m not quite sure,” Helena reflected. “She said she saw something, tried to blast it to smithereens, but then the spell backfired.”

“Just  _ something _ , eh?”

“I suppose.”

“Hm,” Neville mused as he pulled one of the Entrance Hall doors open. He stood back, raising one arm to gesture the way. “After you.”

“Thank you,” Helena replied, taken off guard. She had hardly expected niceties for such an improper rendezvous--however, she graciously went on and waited for him on the other side of the door, facing the moonlight-dusted grounds. Neville passed her by, heading down the front steps with a sort of jovial attitude, like he was glad to be out in the night breeze. 

“So,” he said once she matched her stride to his. “Professor Borington--that must be an unfortunate last name to have as a professor--I hear quite a bit about your classes.” 

“Not as unfortunate as Longbottom. And you have, have you? I suppose I’m doing a good job then?”

Neville laughed now, as they rounded one of the greenhouses and came up to its doors. “You’ve got me there. And I can’t speak for them all, but from what I’ve heard from most of my kids, they love it. They’ve actually started asking me about how they can integrate their Herbology lessons with their Potions.”

“Really now? Well, that’s exciting,” Helena admitted with a hint of disbelief--he could just be saying such to lift her spirits, but there was no use in pondering that. She couldn’t see why he would do so, and took it as a compliment that he cared to say anything to her about it at all. “You know, many of my students admire you.”

“Really now?”

Helena nodded as they entered the dark greenhouse. Neville pulled out his wand and tended to lighting the lanterns as she carried on. “In fact, I’m not sure that I’ve heard many complaints about any of the staff yet. Seems that we’ve blessed them all with a pretty good team.”

“I’ll say,” Neville agreed as he crossed the room to a set of cabinets. “What I would’ve given to have any other git than that bloke Snape.” He began to unravel a chain that was wrapped around the door handles. When Helena gave him a look of bewilderment, he explained simply: “They’re charmed to respond to my touch only. Can’t risk any break-ins--I took some notes from our time in school.”

“That’s awfully smart,” Helena realized. “Could you possibly show that to me sometime? I’ve got plenty of risky items set aside in my stores, personally.”

“Of course,” Neville offered immediately, smiling at her as he rummaged around in the cabinet. “Let me see, now. Hellebore. . . hellebore. . .”

Helena gave him the time to skim around for the plant as she gazed around the greenhouse with awe. Plants of all sizes blossomed and overflowed their pots, looking positively healthy under the care of Neville and his students. She was impressed at just how full they seemed, but didn’t dare move closer to inspect any of them. As if reading her mind, Neville peeked his head around the side of the cabinet door. “Careful for the Venomous Tentacula,” he advised, indicating with the nod of his head to a purple-accented plant on a nearby table. 

“Right,” Helena said, side-stepping away from the Tentacula furthermore. She had already been a safe distance from it as it was, but there was no harm in being just slightly more cautious. About that moment, Neville emerged from being bent so deep within the cabinet. In his hands he cradled a petite, beautiful looking flower--the hellebore. 

“Here she is,” he said brightly, sitting the pot holding it down onto one of the wooden countertops nearby. “One hellebore.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem at all.” Helena waited and watched as Neville shut the cabinet doors and snaked the chain back through them, tapping the tip of his wand against them once it was pulled all the way back through. Once he’d done that, he walked the hellebore over to her and placed it in her open hands. “Hope it serves you well.”

“I have a feeling it will,” Helena beamed as they exited the greenhouse, the lanterns flickering out as they crossed the threshold back over onto the dark lawns. Another trip back to the castle they made, Helena inspecting the hellebore most of the way there. “You seem very meticulous about your plants,” she commented, almost absentmindedly, as she peered closely at its leaves. Neville’s chest seemed to swell a little bigger now.

“Yeah, well--my gran wasn’t too fond of that ‘til I landed this job.” He added, “Then, of course, she did get me my first Mimbulus Mimbletonia, so perhaps she was a lot more on board than I thought back then.”

“She wasn’t fond of your care for Herbology?” Helena asked, curious, trying to get a good read on his face in the dim light.

Neville gave a sort of half-laugh and shook his head, though it wasn’t in any sort of condescension. “Not at all,” he elaborated. “Thought it was a soft subject for the longest time.”

“Well, if it’s worth anything, I think it’s a wonderful subject,” Helena offered, genuity in her voice. “Us Potions professors would be nowhere if not for Herbology professors, in my experience.”

Neville looked back at her with an “I-see-what-you-did-there” expression, the kind that tugged the corners of his mouth up into an involuntary, flattering grin. Helena gave him her own thankful smile.

Now they’d arrived back at the castle, and entered the Entrance Hall as quietly as they  could manage. Once Neville had nudged the door shut (which gave a regrettable clanking sound that echoed off the walls), Helena stopped in her tracks and turned toward him. Before they were to part, she let him know once more: “Thanks again, for getting up and helping me with this. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

Neville put his hands on his hips, where the keys dangled beside his thigh. “It was my pleasure, Professor Borington. And don’t worry about it--I was only grading a few assignments.”

“Right.” Helena swallowed, unsure of what to say now. “Well, goodnight then, Neville.”

With a gentler voice now, Neville gazed after her and said, “Goodnight, Helena.”

And off they went their separate ways.   
  
  
  
  



	5. Quidditch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter, goofier chapter but I hope you all enjoy nonetheless! Much love.

The morning of the first Quidditch match of the season dawned with beautiful clarity--perfect conditions for the teams pitted against each other, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. When Helena entered the Great Hall that morning, she was surprised to see that most of the students were wide-eyed and awake, devouring down their breakfast in eagerness to get out onto the pitch for the game. There was no denying the excitement teeming off of each individual. Helena made to sit in her usual seat.

Here she was greeted by a surprise, as Neville was already in his and eating, whereas Harry was nowhere to be seen. As she pulled out her chair, she turned to him--he gave her a friendly smile, close-lipped so as not to spill any food from his mouth. “Morning,” she greeted and began to slather some jam onto a slice of toast. “Where’s Harry?”

Neville swallowed and scooted his chair a bit closer to her, considering the empty space that now rested between them. “He’s down in the locker rooms at the pitch,” he explained. “Giving the Gryffindors a pep talk.”

“Oh, that’s sweet,” Helena acknowledged, picturing Harry giving the group of sleepy-eyed Gryffindors an animated speech of encouragement. 

“Who’ll you be rooting for?” Neville asked as he started in on some poached eggs. 

“I expect you’ll want me to say Gryffindor,” Helena said knowingly, a teasing smile on her face. 

Neville chuckled. “It would be preferable, yes, but not expected. Why say it like that? Got a thing for Ravenclaw?”

Helena shrugged. “I had some Ravenclaw friends back in school, so yeah, when it wasn’t Hufflepuff, they were my go-to team.” She scrunched up her nose playfully. “Gryffindor could get real cocky for a team that hardly placed.”

“C’mon now, that’s not even fair,” Neville laughed. “We had heart.”

“No, you had  _ Harry _ . There’s a difference.”

Another laugh. Was she really that funny, Helena wondered? She cracked a smile, too. “What?” She asked as Neville put his hand to his cheek and rested his face against it. 

“Nothing. It’s just that you’re not wrong.”

“Oh.” Helena hadn’t ever been laughed at and then told she was right all in the same breath before.

“Well,” Neville cleared his throat and began to straighten up his area. “I believe I’m going to start my way to the pitch--wanna grab some good seats. Still rooting for Ravenclaw?”

“You didn’t do a very good job of convincing me to do otherwise, if you were trying,” Helena responded cheekily.

“Fair point. Are you sitting with anyone there?” He began to shrug his tweed jacket over his shoulders. 

“The Hufflepuff House.”

Neville nodded an acknowledgment to this and pushed his chair in. “As long as it’s not alone. No good in that.” He began to walk away, but then paused and turned back to Helena. “See you, then.”  
Helena pressed her lips together in a half-smile and waved goodbye. He stalked off, leaving her to her lonesome.

She supposed she ought to get up and around to the pitch, too. A sparse number of students inhabited the Hall, now, which meant the match would be starting here soon, and she would be damned if she missed the first game of the season. So, hurriedly, she finished off her plate of breakfast food and started to gather her things to head out. 

As she was leaning over her to close and pick up her satchel, a shadow crossed over her area. It towered over her, patient, as she finished latching the satchel shut. Helena rose up then, seeing who had approached her.

It was McGonagall, standing ramrod straight as always, her signature witch’s hat upon her graying hair. “Ms. Borington,” she greeted curtly. “Could I have a moment?”

“But of course, Professor.” Helena could not help but notice that McGonagall's lips were currently in a thin line--she had not looked so strict this entire school year thus far. Something must be the matter.

“I don’t intend to keep you long, but--it’s about Anaid Herfinch. Madam Pomfrey told me about what happened last night. I have to ask, Ms. Borington--when you were out there, did you happen to see anything?”

Helena relaxed her shoulders a bit, understanding why McGonagall looked so grim. “Apologies, Professor, but I saw nothing. I’d been on a walk when Anaid caught my eye. It’s lucky I saw her at all, to be honest. It was getting quite dark.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” McGonagall lamented, sighing out her words. “Thank you anyway, Ms. Borington. I am sure that Anaid is quite grateful for your happening upon her. Poor girl, I am sure she was likely quite frightened. . . Well, good day to you, Ms. Borington.” McGonagall began to walk away then, but halted. “Oh, and I do hope to see you at the match today,” she added, a flash of a smile flickering across her still-pale face. “Gryffindor’s got a few tricks up their sleeve that I simply can’t wait to see, personally.”

Helena nodded. “Was just about to make my way there, Professor.”

McGonagall straightened herself and began heading for the Entrance Hall. A few students grouped up and followed in suit after her, giggling amongst themselves. Helena shouldered her bag now, and, checking first to see if she’d left anything behind, vacated the Great Hall, hoping that the Hufflepuff House had remembered to keep her seat open for her.

As she neared the pitch, the roaring sound of a thousand students grew ever more the louder, and Helena found herself beginning to smile. How one couldn’t smile at an event such as this was lost on her--so many students, professors,  _ people,  _ all gathered collectively to become invested in one single thing for an hour. And, not only that, but it was optimal conditions to be out in, and Helena, for one, was immensely grateful for it. 

Once she was up in the stands, she took a moment to gaze out over the crowd, which blended together so well that it was hard to make out the Hufflepuff House. However, she didn’t have to look long--one of the older students, one that she recognized as a prefect, had stood up and was waving over at her. When Helena’s eyes landed on them, she could see that they were yelling, “Professor Borington! Professor! Over here!”

Helena began to make her way there, weaving through the benches and clusters of students with some difficulty. Finally, when she found herself face to face with the prefect, she sighed in relief. “Have I missed anything?” She asked.

“Not a thing,” the prefect told her. “Though I think they’re just about to start. I’m Meredith, by the way. One of the prefects.” Meredith politely offered their palm for Helena to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Meredith.” Helena had just barely grasped Meredith’s palm when a great deal of cheering erupted around them, and the both of them immediately turned their attention onto the field, where the Gryffindor team was filing out of their locker room, zipping up into the air on their brooms. Upon seeing the last one enter the field, Helena smiled to herself--it was none other than Griffin Pritchard, playing as Seeker. She found herself glad to see that he at least had one thing he was dedicated to outside of flirting with Dane Heracles in her fifth hour class.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMAN!” A voice boomed over them all once the team was all hovering in the air. “THE GRYFFINDOR HOUSE TEAM!” There was a great deal of more cheering now, but Helena did not join--instead, she glanced around to see who was doing the talking. When her eyes landed on him, her suspicions were confirmed: Up in the top box sat none other than Nicolas Rearden, looking awfully comfortable with the attention.

The Gryffindor House players all leaned forward on their brooms, taking a mesmerizing lap around the field, wherein their supporters simply went wild. It was a tough act to follow, Helena thought. 

Now here came the Ravenclaws, their entry onto the field not so formal as the Gryffindors’. Nicolas kicked back in his seat. “AND NOW THE WITS, THE WONDERS, THE CONDESCENDING--”

“ _ NICOLAS-- _ ”

“Tell me I’m wrong, Professor--THE RAVENCLAWS!”

Those who supported the Ravenclaws had a cry that certainly rivaled that of the Gryffindor supporters. This would be a competitive match indeed--Helena had never seen so much intersectional house support before.

“Alright folks, and here comes Madam Hooch out onto the field with the box--let me guess, you want a clean game, Madam?”

Madam Hooch sent Nicolas a glare that would have shred the boy apart if it could. She then sat the Quidditch ball box down in the center of the grassy spread, fingers ready to undo the clasps. Helena couldn’t hear what she was saying from here--she spoke directly to the team captains--but she could figure that she was saying something along the lines of “Play good and fair. I want a clean match.”

Then, Madam Hooch flipped the top open, leaping back as the contents flew out into the air. The sound of her whistle echoed across the way.

“AND THEY’RE OFF!” Nicolas narrated excitedly. “GRIFFIN PRITCHARD SHOOTS UP FOR AN AERIAL VIEW--GANDER FROM RAVENCLAW TAKES OFF WITH THE QUAFFLE--AND-- _ OH-- _ VETRA POSITIVELY  _ WRECKED  _ BY A BLUDGER! THAT HAS  _ GOT  _ TO HURT.”

Helena winced as a curly-headed Ravenclaw Chaser--some girl by the last name Vetra--was slammed in the shoulder by a rogue Bludger. For a moment, she fretted as the girl tailspun through the air, but was relieved to see her shake it off and lean forward on her broom with even more determination. 

“That’s my girl!” Meredith screamed from beside her, jumping up and down. “That’s my Phoebe!”

The game continued on. Gryffindor was in possession now--Ravenclaw had attempted to score, only to be unfortunately blocked by Gryffindor’s goalkeeper. Now, a rather wild looking boy with shoulder-length hair was racing toward the other end of the field, nearing the goalposts, where an ever-more determined looking Ravenclaw waited, eyes gleaming with anticipation. 

“Chorin makes his way to score with the Quaffle tucked beneath his arm--he throws, he--OH, PRITCHARD’S ON THE MOVE!”

Simultaneously, the attention of everybody in the stands was averted from Chorin’s attempt to score to Griffin, who seemed awfully intent on something invisible to most of their eyes. Ravenclaw’s Seeker was scrambling to get wherever Griffin was heading, too, and for a moment, it looked as if they were going to collide; Nicolas was shouting something but Helena couldn’t even process it as she feared for the two Seekers.

And then she saw it--the glint of gold, which the sun had hit just right. Griffin was close to it now--his fingers brushed against it--

_ “WHAT THE ABSOLUTE F--” _

_ “NICOLAS--” _

_ “PROFESSOR, YOU SAW THAT TOO. COME ON NOW.” _

Helena could feel half of the viewers become overcome by a rage--Griffin had had the Snitch at his fingertips, when one of the Ravenclaws had batted a Bludger in just the nick of time. The thing had hurtled at him full speed, knocking him off his broom before his fingertips could close over the flighty Snitch. Helena looked to the Beater responsible for the act; they had their hand clasped over their mouth in horror at what they’d done. The Ravenclaw Seeker was dismounting to see if Griffin was okay.

A timeout was called, and from there the stands buzzed with a great deal of mixed energy. Helena gazed out at the scene on the field patiently, her hand to her throat--Madam Hooch and Pomfrey both were running out there, cloaks billowing out behind them. 

“CAN ANYONE SEE ANYTHING?” Nicolas called out. “IS OUR MAN GOOD?”

And just then, as Nicolas was starting to become antsy, Griffin jumped up, his thumb up in “okay.” He was grinning. A clearly-visible bruise in the shape of a Bludger was already starting to map itself across his cheek. He clearly wasn’t so bothered, however, as he high-fived the Ravenclaw Seeker and re-mounted his broom. As Madam Pomfrey tried to tend to him moreso, he waved her away and kicked off into the air. Even Helena had to clap for and cheer at this--it could not have been easy to get up from that sort of injury. Then again, Harry Potter had done it almost every damn time. . .  _ almost. _

“HE LIVES!” Nicolas rejoiced in his booth, pumping his fist into the air. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,  _ HE LIVES _ !”

Griffin gave the crowd a cheeky little bow before resuming his position to take in the aerial view, gazing around the field casually as the rest of his team began their rough fight over the Quaffle once more. It seemed that the Beater that had mistakenly hit the Bludger at Griffin was a bit shaken up--Helena couldn’t blame them, it was always regrettable when one player hurt another by accident.

“AND VETRA AND PUGMAN TUSSLE OVER THE QUAFFLE! OPE--AND HERE COMES MADAM HOOCH TO RUIN ALL THE FUN.”

Madam Hooch was soaring up to Phoebe Vetra and the Gryffindor player, “Pugman.” They were still yanking the Quaffle back and forth, each refusing to relinquish their grip on the thing. They seemed oblivious to the shrill whistle, and the way the crowd had stilled as the game gave pause. Griffin, high above them all, and the Ravenclaw Seeker, were both using this time to search for the Snitch.

But Helena did not have to look for the familiar golden glimmer. She froze as there was a hummingbird-like sensation beside her  _ ear,  _ a breeze pushing off the long, white wings. Students around her were beginning to take notice that the Snitch was anxiously hovering around her, and began to point. 

_ Please move, please move. . .  _ She begged of it silently, praying that neither Griffin nor the Ravenclaw student would see. Otherwise, they would be resolved to drastics, drastics that would involve her.

But the Snitch didn’t move. Meredith took notice, and gasped. “Professor--” They began.

“I know,” Helena said stiffly. 

Because of the Snitch being within the crowd, students began to react appropriately--they were turning this way and that, gaping and pointing and even laughing nervously. The commotion finally caught one of the Seekers’ attention--Griffin. Helena felt her stomach drop.

After squaring his shoulders back, Griffin began to do exactly as she’d expected. He leaned forward on his broom, picking up on speed as he raced, determined, across the field, straight toward the Hufflepuff section. Some of the previously laughing students began to shriek; others started to scramble to get out of the way.

Helena, who wasn’t quite sure what would be appropriate for a professor to do in this sort of situation, dropped down--just in the nick of time, too. Griffin nearly collided with the emptying seats as he swooped down and snatched up the Snitch. There was a combination of surprise, fear, and rejoicing from the others as he yanked his broom up out of the mire--for a moment, it was difficult to process what had just happened as Helena slowly rose onto her feet. Griffin was taking a victory lap; those unaffected by the daring move were screaming their throats raw in pride. The Gryffindors had begun to chant.

“GRIFFIN PRITCHARD DOES IT AGAIN!” Nicolas joined in. “ABSOLUTELY INSANE--WELL DONE!”

As the Ravenclaws skulked off the field, the Gryffindors fulfilled a few laps before heading back to their own locker rooms. And just like that the hype was over, the game won. Students began to file out of the seats and head back toward the castle for a hot lunch. As Helena watched after them, a few went out of their way to talk to her. 

“Nice move, Professor!” One called to her.

“Bet that was a rush!” Another exclaimed. 

And Helena had to agree-- _ that  _ certainly had been  _ something. _

Once she had climbed down from the stands, she caught sight of Harry and Neville milling around, hands in their pockets as they were half rapt in conversation, half looking after the dispersing students. Helena, not wanting to take the walk back up to the castle alone, made her way over to them. Harry was the first to notice her.

“Helena! Good to know you at least have reflexes, isn’t it?” He joked immediately, jabbing his elbow toward her, and she allowed herself to smile a little at the insanity that had just unfolded. “Why didn’t you just reach up and wave it away?”

_ That _ was a good question indeed. “I--er--I suppose I just didn’t think of it,” she laughed at herself a little. “Gosh, I  _ really _ didn’t think of it.”

“I’ll say,” Harry teased furthermore as the three of them began to climb the slight hill leading to the castle. 

“Lay off, Harry,” Neville defended, though Helena could tell he was having fun with this, too. “Remember when Malfoy had it right beside  _ his  _ ear, in the middle of a  _ game,  _ and didn’t do anything about it?”

“Absolutely,” Harry reminisced. “Revenge felt a little sweeter that day, I think.”

“I’m just glad you had enough sense to duck,” Neville said to Helena now, leaning forward to look around Harry at her. “I probably wouldn’t’ve.”

“I almost didn’t,” Helena admitted. “I didn’t know what to do--trample over the kids? I can’t do that, I’m a professor.”

Harry laughed at this. “I think desperate times would call for desperate measures.”

Helena scoffed. “And a Seeker hurtling toward you because you’ve got a Snitch hovering around your head qualifies as a desperate time?”

Harry shrugged. “I’d say so.”

“Yeah, right. I’m sure Professor McGonagall would  _ completely _ understand that.”

“Oh, you should’ve  _ seen _ her,” Neville mused. “The look on her face--she was scared half to death. Had her hand over her heart and everything.” 

“That’s funny,” Harry thought out loud. “She never struck me as one for the dramatics.”

They all lapsed into laughter then, and it felt easy for Helena to make fun of the Quidditch game now--in fact, she just found it easy to laugh and kid. She hadn’t done that for quite some time. . . It felt good.

And she was thankful for it.


	6. The Forbidden Forest

Classes after the match were difficult to hold the attention of for very long--most of Helena’s students seemed much more focused on the events of the Quidditch game, and were keen to talk about them above everything else, including their work. Griffin had gained quite the number of hallway fans--mainly girls in the years below him--who swooned or otherwise feigned attention when he spoke of his talent on the field. Helena found this especially annoying, even as a professor--mostly because the flocks of them would congregate right outside her classroom door, making it difficult for anyone else to make their way through.

Her first hour, however, was tame as always--most of the first years, it seemed, were Muggleborns, and more or less interested in the events of Quidditch. Elijah Winstaff and his buddy, Marlon Murphy, were the biggest fans of the sport out of the entire room; the rest of them simply acknowledged the fun aspects of it and then moved on to other conversations. Helena supposed they likely did not know what to do with the information of a wizarding sport yet, though she had a quiet bet placed that Geneva Kearney, a Muggleborn she had heard was a natural talent at flying from the ramblings of Madam Hooch at the High Table, would be on the Hufflepuff House team by her third year.

Halloween was approaching them fast now, and Helena was quite relieved when she found that the date was on a Saturday--perfect timing, she thought. That way  _ everybody  _ got a break, and a holiday, all wrapped in one. Additionally, the Hogsmeade trip was that day--Helena had overheard some of her third years discussing the possibility of wearing costumes to the village, though they had eventually decided against it due to lack of fabric within the castle. This disappointed them--one had been very set on going as Princess Leia, which had confused the other students immensely. Helena could not place the name of the character herself, but knew it to be familiar, and gave the third-year the validation she’d needed. “I know who you’re talking about,” she gave a little white-lie, acknowledging her. She seemed relieved.

“See?” She told her friends. “Professor Borington has  _ taste. _ ”

And Helena nodded, even though she still did not have a face for the name  _ Princess Leia. _

The Friday evening before Halloween, her entire batch of Draught of Peace for Madam Pomfrey was finally ready. She had managed to make twenty some-odd jars with the hellebore Neville had given her, something she still felt incredibly grateful to him for--she would not have been able to dole them out this fast without his help, after all. As classes were wrapped up and supper was underway upstairs, Helena bustled around her classroom, gathering the Draught jars into a carrying crate in order to make her delivery to Madam Pomfrey. When she lifted the box, she realized something that made her groan.

It was quite heavy. 

Taking a deep breath, bracing herself, Helena tried to shift the weight to her legs, careful not to put the pressure on her back. After getting as comfortable as she could with the thing, she began to make her way down the hallway from her room, up the stairs to the Great Hall. She was so caught up in her task that she didn’t at first hear her name being called.

“Helena--hey, Helena!”

She turned, breathless, to see both Harry and Neville jogging up to her, their plates of food abandoned up on the table. “What’cha got there?” Harry asked, pointing to the box.

From standing still for so long, the box was starting to pull her down. Helena sat it down, brushing her palms off to ease them from the stress of holding something so large. “Draught of Peace,” she told him, placing her hands on her hips and looking down at the bottles. She then looked back to him. “For Madam Pomfrey.”

“Looks awfully heavy,” Neville commented. “Need any help?”

“Wha--no, no,” Helena immediately said, waving her hands in the air. “No, I think I’ve got it.”

“You sure?” Harry pressed. “I mean, there are an awful lot of stairs before you get to the infirmary. . .”

_ Don’t remind me,  _ Helena thought exasperatedly. She sighed. “Well--”

“She’s not sure,” Neville said good naturedly. “Here, Harry, give me a hand with this--” He leaned down and took one handle of the crate, and Harry took the other. Helena felt slightly embarrassed--did they figure her weak?

But then, of course, they may only be trying to be helpful. In fact, this was much better than if they’d sat up at the table and watched her walk by without doing anything at all. So she followed after them as they walked with ease, the Draught of Peace jars clanking together with each step between them.

“Thanks, you two,” she said genuinely, and Neville turned back to her.

“No problem at all,” he grinned boyishly.

“You’ve really only got Neville to thank. He’s the one who saw you and suggested we come over here.”

“Well, you did come, didn’t you?” Helena acknowledged.

“Good point,” Harry nodded.

The trio began to climb up the moving staircases, and Helena quickened her place slightly to come up next to Harry. “Are you staffed for Hogsmeade chaperoning tomorrow?” She asked him to get a conversation going. He nodded.

“Neville and I both,” he grunted as they skipped over one of the trick steps. “Why? Are you?”

“No,” Helena answered simply.

“Are you going to come along anyway?” Neville inquired. “It is a holiday, after all--I’ll bet Honeydukes is having quite a few specials.”

Helena shook her head. “Flitwick and I are decorating the Great Hall together while most everybody’s out,” she explained. “I already agreed to it because I wasn’t intending to go--I can’t bail on him and expect him to do it all on his own, now.”

“Understandable,” Neville acknowledged, looking back straight ahead as they transitioned from one staircase to the other. “Is there anything you’d like from Honeydukes, then?”

Helena was taken aback by this offer. She had to take a moment to understand what he was asking. “Anything. . . I. . . What?”

“If you want something from the village, let me and Harry know. We can pick it up tomorrow for you.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “I mean, you deserve to have fun on Halloween, too. Reward yourself a bit. You’ve worked hard.”

Helena thought for a moment, still reeling over the offer. She raised her hand to her face, tapped her index finger against her chin thoughtfully for a moment. “Either pumpkin pasties, cauldron cakes, or chocolate frogs,” she finally decided. “Any one of those, to get in the spirit. But  _ only one _ \--surprise me.”

“Alright then, that’s pumpkin pasties, cauldron cakes, or chocolate frogs. Noted,” Neville recited, and at last they’d reached the infirmary doors. The two boys sat the crate down on the dusty floor for a moment as Helena stepped forward to knock.

It took a few moments of waiting, but eventually Madam Pomfrey peeked out, saw who was waiting there, and then opened the door a bit wider to usher them in. “Come on now,” she urged. “And please, be quiet--I’ve got some patients sleeping already.”

The three of them scooted in. Madam Pomfrey latched the door shut behind them. Neville and Harry faced her now, stagnant with the crate between them. “Where would you like this, Madam?” Neville asked, twitching the hand that was holding his side of the crate up a bit. 

“In the cupboards would be fine,” Madam Pomfrey directed, and the two stalked off to start storing the Draught of Peace away. Madam Pomfrey now turned to Helena. “Thank you kindly for this all, dear,” she thanked with gratefulness gleaming in her eyes. Helena had not noticed it before, but there were furrows along her forehead, crow’s feet beside her watery, old eyes. She supposed that time and stress tended to do that to somebody. “The students especially will be appreciative to you for it.”

Helena smiled at her. “It was no problem, Madam. Whatever I could do to help.” She paused. “Er--Madam--did Anaid ever elaborate on her story?”

Madam Pomfrey sighed. “No,” she said. “All I know is that Headmistress McGonagall has been on the case, it being the Forbidden Forest and all. Highly suspicious activity seems to always find its way in that dreaded place. I truly ask myself why we don’t just demolish it and get it over with.”

“I would agree with you, Madam, if it weren’t for the fact of the centaurs living there. We couldn’t take their one home from them. It would be unjust.”

“I agree,” Harry chimed in now, him and Neville returning to standing beside Helena with a now-empty crate. “It’s been nice seeing you, Madam.”

“Pleasant seeing you in one piece, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey smirked playfully, and it was almost like watching Professor McGonagall make a joke. Helena felt her mouth twitch up in response to this--she wanted to laugh, but knew better than to lose her composure.

“Soak it up while it lasts, Madam,” Harry bantered with ease. “It  _ is _ only October.”

“Don’t go off and jinx it now,” Madam Pomfrey shook her finger at him. “Now, I hate to seem like I don’t enjoy the company, but I’m afraid you three will have to go. Can’t have you stirring up my patients now.”

“See you then,” Neville bid goodbye. He started toward the door. 

“Yeah, ‘bye then,” Harry followed.

“Let me know if you need any more potions brewed,” Helena offered to Madam Pomfrey as she began to step away after them--they were already almost out the door, and she didn’t want to be left behind. “I’ll be happy to do it.”  
“Thanks, dear,” Madam Pomfrey reiterated. “Good evening, now.”

Helena slipped out the door and pushed it shut. When she turned to join the boys once again, she found that they were standing, staring at her, mischievous looks etched onto their faces.

“. . .What?” Helena hesitated, searching their expressions. 

“McGonagall’s got a case going then?” Neville asked rhetorically, regarding the conversation about Anaid.

“Yeah, and what about it?” Helena drawled, already somewhat seeing where he was going with this, but she didn’t want to assume.

“D’you think she’s actually been down to the Forest to check it out?” Harry quirked an eyebrow and side-glanced Neville, who returned this gesture with a knowing, roguish smile.

It finally completely dawned on Helena, and for a moment, it was as if she were looking at Fred and George Weasley, rather than Harry and Neville themselves. She hesitated, hoping that perhaps they didn’t mean what she thought. “You’re not saying--”

Harry cut her off. “Helena, that’s exactly what we’re saying.”

“But we’re professors!” She hissed, keeping her voice down so as not to draw the attention of Madam Pomfrey just on the other side of the doors. “We can’t be doing this sort of stuff! Setting this sort of example!”

“It’s not  _ setting an example _ if we don’t get caught,” Harry pointed out. “Come on, aren’t you the least bit curious to know what caused a student to blast the literal  _ hell _ out of their arm?”

Helena bit her lip. “And you’re on board with this, Neville?”

Neville looked to Harry for a moment before nodding. “Harry’s almost always right about this sort of stuff.”

“ _ Almost.  _ And Professor McGonagall  _ is  _ looking into it, just like Madam Pomfrey said.”

“Helena, don’t you understand? McGonagall is far too diplomatic to look beyond the formalities of an investigation. Trust me, we’ll likely be able to uncover a lot more than her.”

“Come on, Helena,” Neville attempted to persuade. “You were there that night--you could show us where you saw her and everything.”

“And what if it’s nothing?” Helena pointed out. “What if it’s absolutely nothing? What if it’s that she just saw a flicker of a shadow or a-a squirrel?”

“Then it’s just that!” Harry shrugged. He scrutinized her harried expression. “Helena, are you nervous?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am,” Helena humphed. “It’s called the  _ Forbidden  _ Forest for a reason, you know. Not to mention if we were to get caught.”

“We’re not students anymore, Helena,” Neville pointed out. “So, even if we met someone on the way, they’re really not going to question it. Even McGonagall.”

It was a valid argument, Helena hated to admit. She crossed her arms across her chest. “We could get seriously hurt.”

Harry’s mouth quirked into a boyish grin. “So you’re coming then?”

“Of course I’m coming,” Helena snapped. “You think I’m going to just let you two blundering idiots waltz into a forest full of dark creatures without me?” She pushed past them now in a huff, and didn’t get to see the way the two boys looked at each other in amusement. They began to follow after her now, down the flights of stairs to the Entrance Hall. 

“It’s a wonder you never made friends with Hermione,” Harry commented. “You sound just like her.”

“It’s a wonder Hermione never completely lost her mind,” Helena reckoned, missing the trick step with ease. 

When they reached the bottom of the staircases, Helena made for the Entrance Hall, where a few students were trickling out from supper. However, just before she turned the corner, there was a tug on the back of her robes. “Wait!” Neville hissed, and pointed to Harry, who was heading in an opposite direction. “We aren’t taking that route.”

“What?” Helena asked, confused. Some of the students gave her an odd look.

“The tunnel to the lake, the tunnel that the first years come through with Hagrid. We’re going that way, to avoid anybody seeing us go out. C’mon.” 

Without argument, Helena followed Harry as he led them away from the Entrance Hall, down what looked like a deserted corridor. Helena figured that this way wasn’t traveled very much throughout the school year, and really only served as an entryway for the first years to come through with Hagrid and behold what was to become of them. 

After a while of walking along in silence, Harry finally halted before a roughly carved, literal hole in the wall. The edges were jagged, and the air that emitted from the pitch darkness was frigid. Helena drew her robes closer to her and resisted shivering. 

“Here it is,” Harry motioned. “In we go.” He went first, and Helena noticed that he, too, was cold by the way he tugged at the sleeves of his cardigan.

Once they were so far from the entrance to the tunnel, it became rather difficult to see. Harry was the first to pull out his wand. “Lumos,” he muttered, holding it out before him as it cast its narrow light over the dusty floor. Helena thought this a good idea; she pulled out her wand, too, and canted the same spell in order to add a little more light to their path. 

“Not too far now,” Harry said once they’d traveled for quite some time in a comfortable silence--he must have seen the exit coming close. Helena was grateful for this; it felt as though they’d been walking for hours, though she figured it’d probably only been minutes. 

Finally, at long last, they burst out into the night, greeted by a velvety dark sky sprinkled with stars and grass that looked black beneath their feet. The moon was nowhere to be seen.

“So, Helena, tell us,” Neville started as they strode beside the lake toward the Forbidden Forest. From what Helena could see by the amber light that emitted from the tip of her wand, his breath was rising in great white clouds before him. He clutched his own arms--neither he nor Harry had come prepared for the briskness of the night, though to be fair this endeavor had been quite a last minute thing. Helena was at least warm underneath all the folds of her robes. “Don’t you feel just a little excited?”

Perhaps a little, Helena thought. They weren’t breaking rules, technically, but they also weren’t anywhere they should be at that moment. She shook her head. “No idea.”

They were getting close to the Forest now. Harry slowed his pace a little, almost coming to a complete halt. “Alright, before we go in, we need to cover some information about what could be lurking.”

Neville sighed. “Harry, I already know. I’ve been in there before, remember?”

“Not for you, for her,” Harry nodded toward Helena, who stood with a look of bewilderment on her face. “I’m supposing you’ve not been in the Forest before?”

“You would be right to do so,” Helena responded. “I never dared to find myself in there.”

“Well, you’d be best off to brace yourself now,” Harry advised, and Helena was surprised to hear the note of seriousness in his voice. She paid close attention to each word he had to say next. “Madam Pomfrey wasn’t wrong when she called it dreadful. There are good creatures, like the centaurs, but then there are bad, such as the acromantulas. We shouldn’t be going as far as the acromantulas, so no need to worry about them--I’m just saying, to set an example. Now--let’s stick together, shall we?”

Much more cautiously now, the trio, in close proximity to one another, started in for the Forest, the sound of dead leaves crunching beneath their feet and disturbing the otherwise peaceful night. Helena’s heart was racing--already she felt unsettled, unable to comprehend how Anaid had tolerated being out here for so long  _ and  _ with a broken arm, nonetheless. She trailed close behind Harry, Neville bringing up the rear, as they weaved between the skeletal trees and wild bushes.

“See anything suspicious?” Neville shattered the quiet with a whisper. 

“No,” Helena reported, but then she gasped and jumped back, colliding with Neville. “Oh--I--sorry--I--” She pointed at what she’d tried to backpedal away from, and Neville steadied her by her shoulders before side-stepping away to get a better look. 

“Helena,” he said slowly after gazing at it for a moment. “That is a moss-covered rock.”

“ _ What? _ ” Helena burst. Harry hushed her from ahead.

“Yeah, take a look--”

Helena leaned over the mass to inspect it closely. Sure enough, she begrudgingly realized, it was indeed a moss-covered rock. “Oh my god,” she sighed, humiliated. “I--”

At that moment, she was cut off--a slipstream of air brushed against her ear, and the whinny of something hurtling just past it sounded. Helena froze in her place, unsure of where to move--had that been an  _ arrow _ ? She turned her head just slightly to look, to see where the object had landed. Sure enough, it  _ was  _ an arrow, buried deep in a tree just a few paces beside her. Her mouth went dry.

Immediately, Neville and Harry whirled, wands extended out toward the direction the arrow had come from. “Who’s there?” Harry demanded, eyes searching the darkness.

“We should be asking the same of you,” a deep voice said, and footsteps sounded as the source stepped into the narrow light Harry’s wand was casting. Helena heard Neville mutter something beneath his breath, which consequently lit his own wand. Now they could clearly see who they were talking to, and the reveal shocked Helena greatly.

A centaur, which stood bold and tall, stared them down with cold, unforgiving eyes. There was a bow in his hands, and in it an arrow knocked, ready to release. 

“You’re not where you’re supposed to be,” the centaur said, looking from one of them to the next.

Harry lowered his wand, but only slightly. “If you’ll remember me,” he began slowly, “I was a student here. Harry Potter. We’ve met on more than one occasion.”

“We have?” The centaur said coolly, flatly, unconvinced. Harry looked confused, maybe a little at loss for words.

“Stand down, Vernoch,” another voice, a much deeper voice, ordered from the shadows then. Into the narrow light stepped a bigger, more intimidating—if that were even possible—centaur. Vernoch seemed hesitant, but did as told and lowered his bow and arrow. He even stepped back, bowing his head.

“Magorian,” he greeted.

“What’s going on here?” Magorian inquired. He looked between the two parties, and with his stone-like face Helena knew she should not dare lie to him.

“Humans from the castle in the Forest,” Vernoch reported.

“And you are?” Magorian scrutinized the three of them. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Neville was the first to get the words out.

“Professors Longbottom, Borington, and Potter,” he introduced hurriedly. “Your man shot an arrow at Professor Borington here.”

“Potter? As in Harry Potter?”

Harry nodded and swallowed. Helena could tell he might be just as nervous as she was. “Yes, sir.”

“I see.” Magorian seemed as though he went deep into thought for a moment, before turning back to Vernoch. “You shot an arrow at one of these professors without warning?”

“With all due respect,” Vernoch defended himself, “they were snooping around in the dark, in places they shouldn’t be.”

Magorian turned back to the trio. “May I ask what you are doing out here at this time of night, with merely your wands?”

Helena mustered up some courage now, and stepped forward to become more seen. She tried not to flinch at the way Vernoch’s arm twitched the bow slightly. “A student of mine was injured near this area the other night,” she explained clearly and precisely. “We came out here to investigate a potential cause.”

“A student?” Magorian pried furthermore. “Let me ask--were they out here alone?”

Helena nodded, heart racing. For some reason, Magorian was a lot more difficult to face than Vernoch, though he lacked any sort of weapon. 

“One of our men reported seeing someone scuffling around the edge of the trees,” Magorian informed them. “When we came to investigate, they were gone. Do you think that could have been your student?”

“Absolutely,” Helena affirmed. “You must have just missed us--I escorted her back up to the castle, to the infirmary.”

“Hmm.” 

They all stood there in an uncomfortable silence then, as Magorian considered this information. Neville sent an uneasy glance to Helena, who in turn looked to Harry. A sheen of sweat had broken out on his brow--all were unsure of what was to come next. Finally, however, Magorian spoke.

“Vernoch, you are not to bother these three on their quest to avenge the  _ foal, _ ” he instructed, and Helena could have exhaled deeply from the amount of relief she felt to hear this. “I will instruct the others the same as well. However”--he turned to them now--“you three be warned of the creatures in this forest. They may not be so forgiving of your sleuthing.”

“Yes, yes of course.” Harry seemed to have found his voice again.

Magorian nodded to them, and then galloped away, disappearing quickly into the shadows. Begrudgingly, it seemed, Vernoch followed, only after giving the three of them a hard glare. Only when the sound of their hooves had completely disappeared did everybody relax their shoulders.

“Are you alright?” Neville immediately asked Helena, turning to her. He then jolted back as his light cast over her face. “Oh--”

“What?” Helena asked, but then she knew why--as she raised her hand up to the ear she’d thought the arrow had narrowly missed, she felt a bit of sticky blood that had dripped down the side of her face. She felt around her ear, and finally found the source--it was only a small bit that was missing, really. She could hardly feel it. “Huh,” she said, registering it. “Thought he missed.”

“Vernoch must be new,” Harry suggested, still looking after where the centaurs had been standing. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have done that. Magorian may be harsh, but he can be diplomatic no matter the situation.” He turned to Helena now, taking in the blood on her face. “Here,” he offered, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “It’s unused, I promise.”

“Thanks.” Helena took the handkerchief from him and began to clean the wound. Some of the blood had dried already, so it was no use really, but the gesture was appreciated. “So. . . What now?” She asked once they’d settled down from the run-in. “Should we have asked the centaurs if they’d seen anything other than Anaid?”

Harry shook his head. “No, no. They would have been too stubborn to offer anything they didn’t already say.” 

Helena held the handkerchief straight to her ear now. “Do you think what Anaid saw was a centaur?”

This was certainly a thought to consider. They exchanged looks with one another, each thinking hard. Eventually, Harry interjected. “No,” he said. “If it were, whoever saw her and reported her to the rest of the group would have brought attention to the fact that one of them was missing.”

“Let’s keep walking,” Neville suggested then, and Helena looked at him in slight shock. 

“After all that?” She asked breathlessly, and Neville shrugged. 

“We won’t go much deeper into the forest, but now that the centaurs are off our backs, we could actually have a chance of finding something.”

“He’s right,” Harry sided. “Just a few more minutes, Helena.” Helena pursed her lips together. She wanted to go back to the castle a lot more than she cared to admit. “Please?” Harry added weakly.

“Only a few more,” she said dejectedly. “Then I’d best find myself curled up before my office fire with some sherry.”

“Perfect,” Harry grinned, his anxiety from just moments before completely dissipated. He turned now, leading them once more, creeping slowly along the towering trees. Here and there, the skitterings of small creatures could be heard off to the side, skitterings that made Helena’s skin absolutely prickle. The minutes seemed long and drawn out--finally, Helena thought it might be appropriate to point out that their time was up.

“Okay--” She started, only to be cut off by Neville lunging forward and wrapping his hand around her mouth. She froze, breathing in heavily through her nose.

“Hold on,” he hissed in her ear, holding his wand out before them. “Harry--stop. Be quiet.”

Helena shot a frightened glance to Harry, who looked just as bewildered as she felt now. Neville, however, was extremely focused, intent on something the other two could not see. He slid the palm of his hand off of Helena’s mouth and wiped it on his jeans as he edged forward, one foot stepping slowly in front of the other.

There was no sound, besides the rustling of the leaves and Neville’s footsteps. Harry and Helena waited in anticipation, searching for whatever Neville was looking at. He leaned down a bit, peering through the thick brush.

And that’s when Helena heard it. Somewhere, way off to their right, was a thrashing sound. Not like footsteps, but rather as if something was wallering around in the leaves, writhing in pain. Her eyes traveled to follow the noise--and then she saw exactly what Neville had stopped them for.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, watching as the bright white unicorn stumbled around a clearing, struggling to lift itself completely up on its four legs. It was practically a pinprick from here, but she could still make out its actions--one of its legs was badly messed up, hindering it from making any progress getting to wherever it needed to be. “Neville--”

“We shouldn’t approach it,” he decided, resigning himself and standing up to full height again. “A suffering animal like that could be dangerous.”

“What?” Helena burst. “That unicorn could be exactly what Anaid tried to blast--look at its leg!”

“If Anaid had successfully done her spell her arm wouldn’t have been broken,” Neville pointed out. “I say they’re unrelated.”

“I dunno,” Harry suddenly chimed in, that incredibly serious look taking over his face once again. “Look at it, Neville.”

They all averted their gaze to the unicorn once again, for just a moment. Neville bit his lip. 

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Hagrid,” he said, “it’s that creatures like that are unpredictable.”

“I think we should go. We might be able to subdue it, see what’s the problem,” Helena advocated. “Or--oh--maybe, we can head back and tell Hagrid. He’d know what to do.”

“Hagrid can’t know we were in here, he’s got too big of a mouth,” Harry stated. “Good man he is, but he could never keep a secret from me, Ron, or Hermione when we were kids.”

Helena rolled her sleeves up now, exposing her forearms to the cold. The handkerchief had become mostly useless now, and so she stuffed it away in her pocket. “Well,” she said with her chin up high, “I’m going to see what I can do for it.” And she began to march away towards the unicorn, which was now lying on the ground completely, still twitching and thrashing around.

After a moment of trekking through the darkness on her own, the sound of two pairs of footsteps started up behind her. She paused, turning to see both Neville and Harry not far behind.

“Did you really think we’d let you go alone?” Harry asked once they’d stared each other down for a moment. 

“Thanks,” Helena said, and she meant it. Then, she resumed her way toward the unicorn.

It was such a beautiful thing, so beautiful that it was heart-wrenching to watch be in such pain. Helena pitied the poor thing--the nearer she got to it, the more the blood coursed through her veins. She would be able to  _ help. _

But then, as she got closer, she noticed something odd. There was something else there. . . Something dark, and unusual in the way that it moved. . . A shadow. . .

Suddenly, her feet felt like lead. Helena had to use much of her effort to keep going, approaching unhurriedly now.

“Helena?” Neville called up to her. He and Harry had fallen somewhat behind. “What’s going on up there?”

It was taking all of Helena’s might to focus on the shape. It seemed to slide over the unicorn’s body, and, simultaneously, the unicorn’s jagged movements began to edge away. Somewhere in the pit of her stomach, Helena felt a change--a warning. Perhaps she should turn and run, she thought faintly.

“Helena?”

The unicorn completely stilled. The object, the shadow--whatever it was--was still on top of it. Helena’s heart rose into her throat. She could feel the boys realize what was happening as their footsteps halted, too.

Seconds felt like hours as Helena’s feet rooted to the ground. Most of the feeling had gone from her legs--now, there was a terrible sound, the crunching of bones, the ripping of flesh. She was revolted. She was speechless.

She was  _ scared. _

She didn’t even register the sound of running footsteps quickly approaching her--what snapped her back to reality was the feeling of Neville’s hand roughly grabbing her arm from behind, yanking her away in a panic. “We’ve got to go,  _ now, _ ” he said in as low kind of a voice as he could so as not to draw the attention of the terrifying shadow. With some coaxing to her legs, Helena and Neville broke out into a run, joining Harry where he too had stiffened some paces away. The three of them sprinted back through the way they came, panting heavily beside one another, passing by the arrow in the tree, the mossy rock, everything--the only time they stopped was when they’d broke through the trees and gone halfway across the grounds, a safe distance away from the damnable Forbidden Forest.

They couldn’t even speak. For minutes they all stood, hunched over, their hands on their knees as they took deep breaths in and out. Helena couldn’t even find the words if she’d been able to speak them--what  _ was  _ that?

But before they could even discuss any of it, or completely catch their breath, there was another stirring down the completely black lawn. In the darkness, Helena could just make out a large shape--something square, and blundering. Harry and Neville did not seem to notice.

And then came the voice. It was as if tonight couldn’t get any worse.

“Oi, you three! Stand where I can see yeh!”


	7. Firewhiskey

“Hagrid,” Harry croaked, lifting the neckline of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of his chin. “Hagrid, it’s us.”

A lantern flickered to life then, lifted up near Hagrid’s bushy face, casting a warm, amber glow that penetrated the deep darkness like a beacon. “Blimey, Harry,” he breathed, taking in the trio. They must’ve looked like hell by this point. “What’ve yeh all got yerself into?”

“No time to explain here, Hagrid,” Harry said. 

Hagrid glanced up at the castle and then, hesitantly, said, “Well, come with me then.”

After sharing looks with one another--a mix of something exasperated, uncertain, and resigned--Helena, Harry, and Neville all began to follow after Hagrid as he stalked away, back towards his hut, lantern lifted up high. In silence they walked, still likely mulling over the incident in the Forest, which Helena felt as if she could not get far enough away from. The way her legs still felt like jelly. . .

“‘Mon in,” Hagrid grunted, pushing the door of his hut open upon arrival and standing beside the small set of steps. He looked troubled as he cast yet another weary look about the grounds. Helena tried to ignore this as she took up the rear now, following the boys inside and promptly standing beside the fireplace. There was a small flickering of dying flames within it, which warmed her ankles nicely. Harry sat at the table--Neville leaned against the back of the other chair opposite of Harry’s, seemingly too antsy to feel as comfortable as Harry was to sit down.

As Hagrid entered the room, it felt as if the hut had marginally sized down. Helena tried not to feel cramped. He surveyed the lot of them, hands on his hips. He took a deep breath, as if unsure of what to say. For a few moments, there was an awkward silence. Then, Hagrid’s eyes found Helena again. He leaned forward, wide-eyed and concerned.

“What happened to yer face?” He asked, motioning a hand up near his own cheek to indicate what he was talking about.

“What--oh.” Helena felt her cheeks go deeply red--she had not expected to be the first Hagrid would talk to considering Harry was sitting right before him. “It’s my ear. Got nicked.” She didn’t know what else to say--should she add that it had been by a centaur?

“By what?” Hagrid further instigated. Harry sighed and sank back into his chair, running his hand through his wild black hair.

“A centaur shot an arrow at her,” he came clean. Hagrid’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

“A centaur! Yeh don’t mean to say that the three of yeh were poking around the Forbidden Forest?”

Ashamed, Helena looked away. She’d warned them--she knew they should not have gone in there. . .

“What ever could yeh have wanted outta tha’ place?” Hagrid seemed genuinely distressed by this information. Helena didn’t know what to say. Luckily, Harry was much more adept at explaining things to Hagrid than she or Neville could ever be. 

“There was a student, Hagrid.” Harry shot a glance at Helena. “One that Helena here stumbled upon in very strange circumstances. We were investigating.”

Hagrid narrowed his eyes. “What kinda circumstances?”

“Her arm was broken,” Neville spoke up suddenly. All of their attention turned to him now. “Said she’d tried to blast something to smithereens and that’s how she ended up injured. But Harry and I have talked, and we both agreed that it was just too suspicious to leave be.”

“I see,” Hagrid lowered his head thoughtfully. “Here, le’ me make us some tea. Looks like we’re going to be here for a while.”

After sitting through the excruciating silence of Hagrid making tea and finally getting handed a tankard full, Helena and Neville watched on as Harry, for the most part, explained everything that had happened to them, from the moment they’d left the castle to the moment Hagrid had happened upon them on the lawn. Helena and Neville only interjected occasionally. By the time he was done, it was safe to assume his beverage had gone cold--the steam had long wisped away. He paid no attention to this as he took one, long gulp while Hagrid leaned back in his chair sat beside his front door.

“Dark creatures in that forest,” he said in his gravelly tone. “Dark creatures indeed. And even more the curious, the one that you said tore into the unicorn.”

“Yeah,” Harry said shakily now. The change in his tone caught Helena’s attention--she looked to him curiously now as he stared down into his tankard. “If you don’t mind me saying, Hagrid, it--well, the way it was bent over the unicorn--it reminded me of--” He swallowed, taking a moment to recuperate himself. “Remember in my first year, when I got detention with you, and you took us to the Forbidden Forest?”

Hagrid nodded. Neville closed his eyes, as if thinking back to it as well.

“I  _ saw  _ Voldemort in there that night. I didn’t know it right then, but I did. He had been drinking a unicorn’s blood, the same one you had been tracking. This--whatever we saw tonight--this felt almost exactly like that.” When he raised his eyes back up, Helena noticed how bloodshot they looked now. She lowered her gaze, wondering if perhaps hers looked similar.

“But your scar didn’t hurt  _ now _ , did it?” Hagrid asked quickly, and Helena could tell his heart had gone aflutter with immediate worry. Harry shook his head, to their relief.

“No, no. I’m just saying--this felt similar.”

“Hagrid,” Helena interrupted now, and he turned his bushy head toward her. “You can’t speak of this, not yet,” she said. “McGonagall doesn’t know we went out there tonight. Sure, she’s got a case open on the incident already, but I can’t imagine what she might be like if she discovered that three of us professors went out there without any permission.”

“Righ’,” Hagrid coughed. “Righ’, yeah, o’ course.”

“Hagrid,” Neville reiterated cautiously. “Promise.”

Hagrid looked hesitant. “So long as you three promise never to go skulking around there again. Otherwise yeh’ll find yourself witnessing more things yer not meant to see.”

“Deal,” Helena offered up immediately.

“Alrigh’ then,” Hagrid said, satisfied. “Deal. Now, how about I escort you three back up to the castle an’ you all get a good night’s rest for the Hogsmeade trip tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Hagrid,” Harry accepted, unwilling to further push the subject for the night. They emptied their tankards and sat them up on the table before heading out of the hut, out of its warmth and into the cold. Now, even with all her robes on, Helena felt chilled to the bone; she couldn’t imagine how Harry and Neville were feeling with their mere thin cardigans on. 

At last, they found themselves before the tall front doors. “This is where I leave yeh,” Hagrid said, raising his lantern to his face. “I’ll see you three tomorrow.”

“G’night Hagrid,” they each said in a scattered blend. “Thanks for the tea,” Helena added. She felt like a kid again, having been guided back to the castle by one of her previous professors.

“O’ course,” Hagrid smiled, and then descended the steps, leaving them to be shadowed by the dark once more. For a moment, they watched after his silhouette, before Neville finally pushed the door open and they stepped inside the Entrance Hall. If Hagrid’s hut had felt safe, that had been nothing compared to how Helena felt now. 

Harry gave a great yawn. “I think we should talk more about this tomorrow, when we get back from Hogsmeade,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Neville agreed. “It’s. . .” He checked the watch on his wrist. “Late.”

“Yeah. Though I’m not sure I’ll be able to get much sleep after. . . that.”

If Helena could verbalize it, she would have to say that she, too, would not be able to sleep now, not after witnessing such an innocent creature be so  _ preyed _ upon. But, instead, she resigned to nodding her head, like an idiot. 

Neville turned to her now. “How’s your ear?”

She drew her eyebrows together. As far as she was concerned, her ear was not something in need of desperate worrying over right then. “It’s. . . fine. I’ll brew something for the healing. Hopefully, if I keep my hair down, it won’t be too obvious.” She sighed as Harry began to depart from their party toward his office, walking with such a manner that Helena could read that he must be deep in thought. It didn’t feel appropriate to bid him a “good” night. “See you, Harry.”

“What? Oh, see you,” he returned, head in a far off place. He soon disappeared up the stairs. She and Neville had been milling about in silence all that time.

“So. . . Hogsmeade trip tomorrow.” She felt awkward to change the subject, but Neville was still standing there, and she certainly felt too wide awake to be concerned with heading straight back to her office. In fact, her mind now dawdled to the idea that perhaps the Fat Friar would be willing to share the kitchen stock of Firewhiskey. . .

“Oh, yeah,” Neville said with a humorless laugh that seemed to deflate his chest. “That.”

They lapsed into a silence for a few beats. Then, Helena faced him. “Neville?”

“Hmm?”

“I know. . . I know that what we saw tonight was disturbing. But tomorrow. . . tomorrow’s Halloween, and you’ve got spectacular plans laid out for you, and--well, what I’m trying to say is, try to get some rest, okay? We can talk about this all tomorrow evening, of course, but for now. . .” She drifted off. She was trying to be genuine, maybe even hopeful, for him, but it came off as coy and hollow-hearted. She sagged her shoulders. “I’m sorry, I know that’ll probably be impossible.”

Neville caught her eye then, letting his mouth quirk up from a straight line into the smallest of smiles--the type that one musters up whenever they know someone needs it, even if the situation is not the best for it. “Hey,” he said. “It’s the thought that counts.”

Whatever that meant, Helena figured. She returned the smile anyway, which quickly turned into a grimace. “I think I’m going to head to the kitchens now. See you tomorrow.” She had not traveled but one step before Neville stopped her.

“Wait! What are you going to the kitchens for?”

“Firewhiskey,” she admitted shyly, and for some reason, a bit of shame blossomed in the back of her mind. She pushed it away. 

“You know, I keep a stash hidden away in my chambers. I’d be glad to give you some,” he immediately offered. “I’m sure it’s better than what the ghosts have to offer.”

Helena pondered this for a moment. “You’re sure you’re alright with giving me some?”

Neville shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

Casting a last glance toward the kitchens, she stepped back toward him. “Thanks.”

“Anytime. Here, follow me.”

Up the stairs the two of them ascended, navigating the pathway in the darkness as if the route was muscle memory by this point. Helena tried not to think about the shadows that filled in the empty gaps of the stairwell, or the clanking of the haunted armor sets as they moved past them. Most of the paintings were snoozing away within their frames. All was quiet--too quiet. Not even Peeves could be heard stirring about in some far off classroom or corridor.

“Here we are,” Neville whispered as he came up to his office door. After wrestling with a key for a few moments, the handle clicked and he pushed it open, revealing a plush room accented mostly with maroon items. Two velvet chairs faced the fireplace, china cabinets full of spectacular looking plants lined the walls and windowsills, and in the corner, there was a bed, with a rather cozy looking quilt on it. Lanterns and sconces holding tall candles garnished the walls; Neville, with the wave of his wand, ignited a fire in the grate of the stone fireplace, seemingly eager to get warmed up. 

“Wow,” Helena breathed, surprised at the amount of care that seemed to have gone into the decorating of the room. Her chambers looked nothing like this--she hadn’t exactly been motivated right off the bat to make them look this nice. Then again, even though McGonagall had said she could, she never expected she’d be able to make her chambers  _ this  _ homey.

“Let me dig around and find that Firewhiskey for you,” Neville said, leaving her to gaze around the room. He pulled open one of the cabinets built into the plant displays, searching around inside. As he did that, Helena busied herself by taking in the room furthermore. It was so interesting to her--here was where one of her closest friends (she wondered; would he be okay with her calling him that?) dwelled when classes weren’t in full swing. This was where he read his books, sank into a chair before the fire after long days, where he wrote out letters back home. And the room was so perfectly  _ him  _ that it was easy to picture this all.

Neville finally rose back up then, interrupting her stream of thought as he shut the cabinet door gently and brandished an unopened bottle. “Here we go.”

“Well, that’s brand new!” Helena exclaimed, shocked. She had been expecting something more along the lines of half-drank, a hand-me-down.

Neville looked confused by this reaction. “And?”

Helena shook her head. “Never mind. It’s just that--yeah, never mind.”

“Here,” he offered it to her. She took the cool glass bottle into her hands. “And drink it responsibly, okay? No need to lose yourself over tonight. We’ll handle it  _ together _ , remember.”

“Please, like I need a lecture from you,” she tried to play now, to lighten up the mood. To her delight, he laughed, albeit only a short breath’s worth. He resumed being serious after.

“But, seriously, Hels. Promise me.”

“I promise.” Since when did anyone call her Hels? Except for maybe Hannah Abbott.

“Okay. Now hurry along. I’ve got a Hogsmeade trip to chaperone tomorrow, remember?”

“Clearly,” Helena rolled her eyes. It felt natural to ignore the fear that had gripped her heart for a few hours now. A part deep within her wished he would invite her to stay longer, to distract the both of them. “Okay. Goodnight, Neville. Thanks for the Firewhiskey.” And begrudgingly, she began on her way back to her own chambers.

She didn’t even know why she’d bothered to go through the trouble, though--have  _ Neville _ go through the trouble--by the time she found herself in her room.  _ Firewhiskey? _ To cope with a problem? She knew so much better than that--undoubtedly, her grandfather was probably shaking his head in disapproval from  _ somewhere _ . She sighed, and in a great resolve, sat the unopened bottle down on her dresser.

Think, think, think. 

Shutting her eyes was not very much an option right then--all that would do was bring forth the unpleasant images that swam at the front of her mind now that she was  _ alone. _

_ She didn’t know how Harry had done it. _ That was the first thought that floated between her two ears. She didn’t know how Harry, that bright-eyed man she still thought of as a boy she went to school with, had done it. How he maintained himself all those years, how he had played so adeptly with the cards life had so unfairly dealt him. 

Growing up, she had heard the rumors of the things he had endured. Weakly, she remembered how frightening her first year at Hogwarts had been, when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened--and  _ oh,  _ how poor Ginny Weasley, Harry’s now-wife, had nearly died down there, and Harry had defeated a basilisk, of all creatures.

A  _ basilisk.  _ Helena froze her pacing that she had not even realized she’d started, staring at the wall but not quite comprehending the room. Her imagination was taking her elsewhere at the moment--back to the forest, searching the dark shadow in a slow motion picture show as leaves crunched slowly, excruciatingly, under Neville’s approaching feet. . .

A  _ basilisk.  _ Had that been what they had seen, she wondered faintly? 

It  _ slithered,  _ she realized, and her heart quickened its pace, as if she were running away all over again.  _ It had slithered over the body of that poor, broken unicorn. _

She clutched her hand over her heart and squeezed the fingertips against her skin, just to feel something, to keep herself grounded. She was in the castle, safe--this was no time to get panicky all over again. 

Think, think, think.

Because she was so exhausted by the night, Helena’s mind began to wander. She thought back to her second year, when Harry’s head had been the supposed target of criminal Sirius Black. . . The Triwizard Tournament, when Voldemort had risen back to his full form. . . And then, how nobody had believed him for quite some time afterwards. . .

_ I’d believed him,  _ Helena thought to herself.  _ I’d believed him, and I should have told him so. _

But then, of course, she  _ had  _ told him so, in a sense--she had immediately taken up ranks with Dumbledore’s Army the moment the idea was introduced to her. She knew better than to squander precious time trying to practice that horrid Dolores Umbridge’s rhetoric.

And then there had been the Ministry.

Truth be told, Helena hadn’t heard very much about that. She knew a little--only what her old friend Luna Lovegood had chosen to discuss with her as they painted each other’s nails in the Ravenclaw common room. When she noticed the new scars running up Ron Weasley’s arms like thick ropes, she asked about them, to which Luna responded: “Jellyfish brains got a hold of him.” Helena hadn’t been sure if she was telling the truth or not.

Neville had been there, she knew--Neville had been there, and he’d hurt his ankle somehow (had it been his ankle?), and he’d even been held at wandpoint by one of Voldemort’s most loyal Death-Eaters, Bellatrix Lestrange herself.

Which got her started thinking. . . How did Neville do it, too?

Neville, the shy boy with a flop of hair that always grew way too close to his ears. Neville, the only Gryffindor she knew to be so caring toward each and every one of his vines, flowers, plants, especially back in school. Neville, the boy who trembled when Draco Malfoy did so much as  _ look  _ in his direction. Neville, the boy who. . . the boy who. . .

The man who protected Hogwarts, his home, when  _ everything  _ was on the line.

The man who had taken the beatings of the Carrows, for the sake of the younger kids, so scared out of their wits.

The man who had beheaded Voldemort’s most trusted informant.

It had been one of Helena’s bigger regrets, not staying at Hogwarts the year that Snape took over. Things were dangerous--and that was an underestimation. She had caved to her grandparents, with their reasoning of her being a half-blood. It was an incredibly lucky thing, to live somewhere that they could get lost in a crowd easily, blend in. She lost nobody, yet everybody, in the span of the school year. 

But when the time called, when word came that there was to be a battle. . . Helena was off. Hogwarts was her home, too. She couldn’t just leave it defenseless.

Helena shook her head clear then. Now was not the time to be reminiscing about another completely horrible thing. Her mind had wandered too far, and it was time to reroute it.

Except her eyelids, they were getting heavy now. . .

She returned to her original thought.  _ Basilisk. . . What would be the attributes of a basilisk? And could one survive in the Forest? _

So many questions. . . Questions, shadowed in a darkness, just like that of which had haunted the Forest as they’d ventured through it that night. . .

Helena crawled into bed, staring out at the dim room. Had that really been tonight? It felt as if time had no meaning, now.

Her eyes fluttered shut. Perhaps she was more tired than she’d realized.

And perhaps the inevitability of the nightmares to come was something she could not have come to terms with when she had been fully awake.


	8. Halloween

The following morning, Helena awoke bleary-eyed and absolutely sleep-deprived. 

Last night had been her worst for sleep in ages. She’d dreamt up ghastly images, horrid movies in her head--in one, the shadowed creature had looked up, revealing a gruesome face that was difficult to put into words. In another, it had wrapped itself around her and constricted the air out of her lungs, the life out of her body. (She had woken up with a start from that one, panting and close to tears). And then, in another that stuck with her (as it was the worst), the creature had attacked both Harry and Neville, and no matter what she tried to do, she couldn’t stop it. She had been completely helpless, legs like cement and arms like jelly and a floppy wand to top it all.

As she rose from her bed, legs initially achy from all the running from the Forest, she stretched her hands high up toward the ceiling, the bones in her back cracking as if she were something old and weary. After taking a moment to regroup her thoughts, she began straight to work at dressing up for the day--to be in a more festive mood--though hard as it was to muster--for the students and professors alike. She had laid out a set of dark robes and the stereotypical witch’s hat, which was garnished with a bit of lace around the back. She supposed it would suffice for a “costume,” though in hindsight it might have been better to choose something unrelated to magic, seeing as it was part of everybody’s everyday life here at Hogwarts. To them, she’d look just as she did any other day, save for the hat (she didn’t generally wear hats; that was more of McGonagall’s thing).

Being that it was both a Saturday and Halloween, Helena took her time to get up to the Great Hall and grab breakfast, mostly using it to cover up the dark circles that had set in beneath her eyes. By the time she did find herself there, the cavernous room was practically deserted, inhabited only by a few students milling about and Professor Flitwick, who was already starting on the decorations. 

Not feeling very hungry for any breakfast yet, Helena decided she should get to work, taking out her wand to string along some baubles shaped to look like miniature Jack-o-Lanterns. To her side, she watched from her peripherals as Hagrid began rolling overly-large pumpkins into the hall--some of the students gaped, some pointed to the scene with enthusiasm, and others scurried to get out of the way. Helena simply smirked to herself. 

Hagrid continued to roll the gigantic Jack-o-Lanterns until he was directly beside her. He nodded in her direction. “Mornin’.”

If he was trying to be casual, he was doing a rather terrible job. Perhaps Harry was right in saying that the man could not keep a secret. “Morning, Hagrid,” Helena said calmly as she surveyed him. He was pink in the face from his hike up to the castle and having to haul such heavy things along with him. “And how are you?”

“Oh, jus’ marvelous,” he panted. He leaned on the now-upright pumpkin, its massive face staring out over the Great Hall. “You?”

Helena lied straight through her teeth. “Fantastic.”

“Great!” Hagrid forced awkwardly. He looked as if had a million things to say, but was swallowing it all back. “Well--off ter get another pumpkin. Er--see yeh.” He raised his hand in a stiff wave and walked away. Helena almost wanted to laugh--bless that man’s heart.

When she and Professor Flitwick had wrapped up stringing up the final decorations, Helena took a moment to feel completely and utterly proud of herself. The Great Hall looked spectacular, thanks to their extra flourish; charmed cobwebs haunted the corners of the room and the window-panes (that had been a fight with Argus Filch, who only calmed when Helena explained they would disappear without the need to be physically cleaned up); a mixture of floating pumpkins and dangling spiders hovered just beneath the ceiling; strings of faux autumn leaves had been strung over the tops of the windows. The tables had been set back out for the upcoming feast, garnished with special goblets whose bases were made up of an iron skeletal hand reaching up to cradle the cup. Bowls of punch were laid out intermittently along the benches, pouring over with a magical, mysterious, endless fog. 

“I believe we’ve done quite a good job,” Professor Flitwick observed as they stood back, admiring the work together. He held up his fist.

Helena noticed this motion and let a giggle bubble up from her chest. “Professor, are you trying to  _ fistbump  _ me?”

Professor Flitwick smiles. “C’mon now.”

“Oh, alright.” And she did, and it felt  _ great.  _

“Alright, I’m off,” Professor Flitwick announced. “I’ve got to go down to the village for a hot butterbeer before all this”--he motioned to the room, indicating that he meant the feast--“begins. Good day to you, Ms. Borington.”

“Good day to you,” Helena bid him in return, and he hobbled off, leaving her to her own in the capacious room, which had completely emptied of students by then. 

Well, now what? She had planned on this being an all-day thing, but now it was only just passing the mark of noon. She could still go down to the village. . . But no, she decided, this time would be much better spent catching up on the work she needed to grade through. And so, with a final resolve, she crossed the entirely too long room and made way for her office, her steps echoing loudly off of the walls.

She had just begun to flip through her first stack of parchment, however, when there was a knock upon her door. Curiously, she rose from her seat, brushing off the front of her robes out of habit before stepping forward to pull it open. She was taken aback by who was on the other side--little Geradine Vance, from her first hour class.

“Geradine!” Helena smiled. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Hello, Professor Borington,” Geradine, in her bright, eager voice, greeted. She rocked back and forth on her feet, hands politely clasped behind her back. She peered around her to get a good look at the office. “May I come in?”

“But of course.” Helena moved to the side now, welcoming the girl in. Geradine marched right ahead, plunking herself right down in a seat across from Helena’s. She waited patiently as Helena followed after and slid into her own chair. She was surprised that this child seemed to feel so comfortable in here so quickly. “What can I do for you?”

“I was just curious, Professor, if you offered any extracurriculars or credit.” She spoke quickly, and tugged at the sleeves of her robes. A thread had come loose at the end of the left one, which she suddenly found to be very interesting apparently.

“Extracurriculars?” Helena repeated, thinking hard. “Well, no--to be quite honest with you, it never occurred to me. To host a club or something or other, of course.”

“Oh.” Geradine looked slightly disappointed by this answer, but attempted to keep cool and collected. She readjusted her posture, dropping the sleeve in which she’d been picking at to her side, and raised her chin up. “You should consider it then,” she suggested confidently. “I, for one, would very much like to join.”

A flicker of a smile ghosted across Helena’s lips--it certainly was almost like looking in a mirror when she stared down the child before her. “I’d have to speak to McGonagall first, you know,” she told her. “Then we can go from there.”

“You would do that?” Geradine smiled widely, excitedly. She leaned forward in her seat just slightly, in anticipation.

“Well, of course I would,” Helena responded graciously. “Why wouldn’t I? I think it would be rather fun to have a club or an extracurricular to get students involved with.” She thought for a moment. “You know, back in my time here at Hogwarts, there  _ was  _ a potions club, come to think of it. The Slug Club.”

Geradine wrinkled her nose now, disgusted by this title. “The Slug Club?” She raised her eyebrows.

Helena nodded, steepling her fingers together and casually leaning back in her seat. “That’s right, the Slug Club. My old professor Horace Slughorn hosted it. It was marvelous. We had parties and little get-togethers--of course, in the meantime, we  _ did  _ practice more advanced potions. It was only the brightest students he invited, and that was by his standard.”

“Only the brightest?” Geradine questioned furthermore. She took a long pause, looking thoughtful. “Professor, don’t you think that would be a bit unfair?”

“Yes, I suppose it was,” Helena reflected now. “It was a very selective group, one of which most students thought was rigged because they never knew they were being evaluated. And Professor Slughorn was sometimes wrong in his choosing of who should be allowed to participate--you’re familiar with Professor Longbottom, I presume?”

At this, Geradine’s cheeks went slightly pink. Helena resisted poking fun at this fact, and ignored it, carrying on.

“Professor Longbottom is extremely talented in his field, as you might know. He was in the running for the Slug Club when we attended school together, but was rejected due to the fact that he didn’t meet Professor Slughorn’s standards. However, as you may know, even with this judgment upon him, Professor Longbottom went on to do great things.”

Geradine nodded in agreement now, her bushy hair bobbing up and down upon her head. “Yes, Professor--my mum and dad have talked to me about it before. They said he--well, he--”

“I know,” Helena said when she became hesitant. “You don’t have to say it, if it makes you feel uncomfortable. But cutting off the head of a snake is no easy feat, and your good old Herbology professor  _ did that. _ ” Helena felt a swell of pride then, but suppressed it, and breathed out a long, contented sigh. “So, I suppose what I am getting at here is that, if Headmistress McGonagall approves, we’ll see about a club. And it will be open for all. So long as they don’t disrupt our time.”

“Excellent!” Geradine rejoiced before lowering her head shyly. “And about extra credit?”

“Extra credit?” Helena raised her brows. “Miss Vance, you have the highest grade in your class. What are you on about?”

Geradine shrugged. “I want to learn everything I can, so I’m sure to succeed at next year’s work.”

Helena shook her head, but was smiling. “I don’t have any made up as of right now, but I could put something together for you. You’re sure you want  _ extra  _ credit? You could afford to do other things with your free time, like stroll about the lake, or explore the castle.”

Geradine shook her head back at her now. “No, I think I prefer this.”

Helena caved. “Alright then. We’ll see about it soon.”

“Thank you, professor.” Geradine’s face was simply lit up. 

“No problem at all. Now, is there anything else I can help you with, dear?”

Geradine thought for a moment. “Actually, yes, professor. Could we go over my essay on the Herbicide Potion and it’s uses? I think I messed up.”

Helena shrugged. “I don’t see why not. Let me just dig it out of my pile here. . .”

At last, as if it couldn’t arrive any sooner, the time for supper came along, and Helena was simply itching to see Harry and Neville again. Despite Geradine’s visit to her office earlier in the day, she had to admit that going this long by herself ever since making friends with them felt quite lonely--many times, she felt like getting up and hunting them down to share a thought, but remembered abruptly that she couldn’t, as taking off to the village would have surely distracted her from meeting her quota of graded papers for the day.

As the students all came filing into the Great Hall, clumped together in their massive, excitable groups, so did the chaperoning professors. Most everybody’s arms seemed loaded down with goodies--all Helena could see was an overwhelming amount of sweets, which was appropriate to expect given the day. Neville and Harry, she noticed, were also weighed down by shopping--Harry carried a package of butterbeer that swung by his side in one hand, and balanced a package of some sort in the other. Neville, who strode along beside him, was clutching a paper bag to his chest, which looked as if it were bulging near the bottom. Helena waved at them from the table, and Neville returned it, as Harry didn’t have a free hand to do so.

“How was Hogsmeade?” Helena inquired once they’d arrived at their seats, anxious to get the loot up on the table. 

“Wonderful!” Harry reported with a grand smile. The butterbeer bottles clinked against one another as he sat their casing up near the garlic mashed potatoes. “We got your treats, as promised. Neville, if you’ll do the honors--”

“Treats? As in plur--?”

“Pumpkin pasties, cauldron cakes, and chocolate frogs, all at your service,” Neville interrupted proudly then, dropping the treat haul before her. He had not obeyed her request whatsoever. Her mouth dropped at the surplus of sweets.

“Neville--I told you to surprise me! You didn’t have to do this!”

Neville shrugged. “ _ Treat _ yourself.”

“At least let me pay you--”

Neville held up his hand to stop her. “ _ Treat yourself _ .”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Easy for him to say--I gave him the money to go buy it.” He then cleared his throat. “But you deserve it, of course.”

Helena was unsure of what to say. She only felt the overwhelming urge to hug them both right now, but refrained--it would be quite awkward if they weren’t okay with that sort of gesture. 

Harry sat down now, in his usual spot beside her, and wiped his hands on his jeans as he leaned closer to her. His voice was lowered as he said; “And by the way--Room of Requirement. After all of. . .” He cast a glance around the bustling room, “ _ this _ disperses. We’re going to. . . talk.”

Just by the look on his face, Helena could tell that he felt the same amount of both excitement and dread. Maybe more dread than excitement, she decided as an afterthought, as he tried to smile hopefully but mostly failed miserably.

“Okay,” she nodded in understanding. “Got it.”

“Want a bit of these deviled eggs?” Neville butted in then, offering up a plate full of them. “They’re apparently decorated to look like brains.”

Indeed, the yolks of the deviled eggs were not in their usual whipped looking form--rather, they had been molded into gruesome little brain lookalikes, with squiggly little rivets dusted by paprika. Helena laughed. “I’ll be that’s the work of the Friar,” she commented as she helped herself to two of them. “Thanks.”

“Yup.” Neville sat the plate back down amongst the rest of the gorgeous looking food, all twisted in one way or another to look reminiscent of Halloween-themed creatures. There was even a cake frosted to replicate the bodice of an acromantula down the table from the three of them. 

“Wow, the ghosts really went all out, didn’t they?” A voice exclaimed from beside them. It was Professor Sinistra, who was helping herself to some mashed potatoes.

“I should hope so,” McGonagall commented from her place at the table. “It’s practically tradition here at Hogwarts by now, having a big Halloween celebration.”

Helena leaned forward and spoke to the two boys now, who were gorging themselves on the delicious, lovely-looking food. “I do believe we should pay the kitchen a visit, give them our compliments. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Harry shrugged, a bite of food pressed against his cheek. “I don’t see why not.”

“Yeah, I’m in. Think they might send us with leftovers?”

“There’s a good chance for it,” Helena said. “Though I wouldn’t quote me on that.”

Near the end of the feast, after everybody had nearly stuffed themselves with the thoroughly enjoyable meal, Helena was taken by surprise to see McGonagall rising and coming to the front of the room. Dumbledore rarely gave speeches other than on the first night of the term, so she was very curious to see what the Headmistress had to say.

“Happy Halloween,” she began once the room had quieted. “I hope you all enjoyed what our kitchens had to offer on this very fine evening.”

There was a rumble of approval that rose from the crowd of students now, which died away as quickly as it came, as McGonagall was waiting patiently for silence once more. 

“I am up here because, before you are dismissed, I felt it appropriate and needed to let you all know that I have been impressed by your behavior during your time at Hogsmeade today,” she told them graciously as round faces beamed up at her. “We had no situations arise in which resulted in the punishment of anybody here. You all deserve to be recognized for your competence and compliance with the rules today. Thank you for representing both Hogwarts and yourselves in such an orderly manner.”

McGonagall was smiling at them with pride glistening in her eyes. This must be a very special occasion indeed, that not one student caused a bit of trouble today; as Helena pondered this, Neville leaned over, as if on cue, speaking to both her and Harry. “I reckon Fred and George Weasley gave McGonagall a run for her money every time they were let loose in that village,” he whispered, and Helena rolled her eyes.

“I bet Fred and George Weasley gave her a run for her money, period.”

Harry chuckled in response to this.

“That is all,” McGonagall rounded off her speech now. “I hope you all have enjoyed your holiday. You are dismissed.”

As everybody began to rise from their seats and resume chatter, Helena stayed sitting down with both Harry and Neville. “To the kitchens?” She suggested now, looking to them for a general consensus. 

“Sure,” Harry said as he got to his feet. “Maybe they’ll have a bit of an afterparty going that we can jump in on.”

The three of them made way down the line of the table then, out amongst the horde of students clamoring around the archway to the Entrance Hall. After a bit of pushing this way and that, Helena finally found herself on the other side of the whole mess, slipping into the hallway toward the Hufflepuff common room, waiting patiently then for Neville and Harry to reappear from within the ocean of students.

First came Harry, breaking free with a relieved look on his face. “You’d think they would make way for a professor coming through!” He panted as he cast a wary look back at the chattering kids. 

Helena stifled a laugh. Not even the  _ Chosen One _ could make even the smallest clique disband for a few moments.

Next came Neville, a few moments later, a bit less affected by the swarm from which he had just come from. Helena noticed a gaggle of girls giggling from behind him and thought back to Geradine in her office--Professor Longbottom seemed to be quite  _ popular _ around here. She smirked to herself.

“Lead the way,” he said, and Helena turned on her heel, away from the admirers, heading toward the barrels that guarded the kitchen doors. She raised her fist to knock.

“You’re knocking?” Harry laughed before waltzing right in. Neville followed after him, leaving Helena with an astonished look on her face. She wiped it off before entering after them.

For Halloween, the kitchens were eerily quiet when they walked in. Some ghosts inhabited a corner of the room, piled over each other and snoozing. Others sat before the fire and talked amongst themselves quietly. In the corner opposite of those sleeping, holding an empty goblet while deep in conversation with the Fat Friar, was a ghost Helena had never seen before. When he caught sight of them, he raised the goblet in a half-wave, which resulted in the Fat Friar taking notice of their party as well.

“And to what do we owe this honor?” The Fat Friar greeted as they made their way over to the pair.

“Awfully quiet in here tonight,” Neville commented, crossing his arms over each other and rubbing his biceps--Helena would have liked to have bet that he was just as chilled as she was. The room was far from warm and ambient with all of these paranormal beings hovering about.

“We like to keep things classy during celebration, you know,” the unknown ghost gave reason as he tipped the goblet toward them just slightly.

“We’ve come to pay our respects to the cooks,” Helena said now. “It was a lovely supper you all served tonight.”

“Was it now?” The Fat Friar beamed. “Please--that was nothing. Just wait until you see the plans for Christmas.” He pretended to take a swig of liquor from his own goblet, which merely went right through him, sloshing onto the floor. Helena saw Harry grimace just slightly, probably swallowing back the urge to look fully disgusted by this. “We’ll have to let the rest of our staff know that it was so thoroughly enjoyed tomorrow morning.”

“It is a well-deserved compliment,” Helena bowed her head forward slightly now, smiling.

“Yes, the acromantula cake was amazing,” Harry added, following in suit. “Tasted magnificent.”

“That would have been mine,” the unknown ghost beamed now, puffing his chest up in pride.

“Oh, forgive me--I’ve forgotten to introduce you!” The Fat Friar cried. “Kids”--Helena’s shoulders tensed; did they still look like children anymore?--“this is Heartless Harold.”

“Heartless?” Helena drew her brows together, looking funnily at “Heartless Harold.” He smiled at her confusion, and unbuttoned his shirt in order to pull it aside. In his silvery chest was an absolute gaping wound where his heart should have been.

Helena was both repulsed and in awe.

“The 1800’s was a dark time for medicine,” he joked, moving his shirt back over the wound. 

“Harold here is the new Gryffindor ghost, ever since Nick went off to join the Headless Hunt,” the Fat Friar explained.

Helena was starting to notice a trend of “less” within the Gryffindor ghost names.

Harry nodded curtly at him. “Nice to meet you then, Harold.”

“Yes, a pleasure,” Helena confirmed.

“D’you think you have any more of that acromantula cake then?” Neville asked, which resulted in a roundabout bit of laughter between them all. His question had broken the awkwardness of Harold showing off his would-be heart.

“I’m sure I do,” Harold said afterward. “I’ll go and check.” And off he floated to the cupboards.

“And how are you all planning to spend Halloween?” The Friar kept up conversationally as they waited. “Chasing ghouls? Hunting goblins? I’ll never forget the year you single-handedly defeated that troll, Harry Potter.” He winked.

“Actually, I didn’t--” Harry tried to correct him, but he carried on over the top of him.

“And then, of course, there was the year that poor old Mrs. Norris ended up on a torch-pole,” he recalled. “Old Argus Filch was upset about that for ages--”

So, in other words, Helena thought, Halloween was not exactly the best holiday to be celebrated at Hogwarts. It sounded just about as cursed as the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. She slid a look toward Harry, who seemed to be thinking something along the same lines.

“Here we are,” Heartless Harold returned now, thankfully, with three slices of the leftover acromantula cake wrapped neatly in his transparent hands.

“Thank you,” Helena said in slight surprise as he handed it over to her. She had not been expecting for him to get some for her and Harry, too. 

“Thanks mate,” Neville said graciously as he received his piece.

“And a Happy Halloween to you,” Heartless Harold nodded and backed into his spot once more.

“Happy Halloween,” Helena smiled. She turned to the boys. “Shall we go then?”

“I think we shall.” Harry raised himself a little higher, likely reveling in all this formal speak. It was a sight to see.

“Goodnight, then,” Helena bid the ghosts goodbye.

“See you around!” The Fat Friar pretended to hiccup drunkenly.

Helena rolled her eyes at him playfully before making her way toward the doors leaving the kitchen. Once they were outside, Harry immediately went into explaining their plan for the Room of Requirement.

“Later,” he instructed them, “Not now. Mrs. Norris and Filch are bound to be snooping around the halls for any lingering students. I say we all go back to our offices, wait until ten, and come back. Give it some time so that we don’t all group at once. Got it?”

“Got it,” Helena nodded.

“Yep,” Neville confirmed.

“Right,” Harry said as they reached the stairs leading up to his and Neville’s offices. “See you then, Helena.” And both he and Neville parted, heading up the stairs with one another.

Now all there was left to do was wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I just wanted to give you all a quick update: The Potions Master is now on a weekly schedule! NaNoWriMo just wrapped up, so after all that *ahem* word vomiting, I am reducing the amount I will be writing every week and crafting a better routine for myself. Be expectant of updates every Friday! At least, that's the goal. 
> 
> Also, I've got a surprise coming soon! Stay tuned! Okay, I love you all so much, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! (Heartless Harold was personally my favorite part to write). Good day!


	9. The Room of Requirement

Helena crossed the path before where the Room of Requirement’s door was supposed to be once, twice, then three times, thinking to herself how absolutely nutters she might have looked from anybody else’s perspective right then. She figured it was lucky that Mrs. Norris, Argus Filch’s damned cat, hadn’t happened around the corner of the hallway just then, as the door began to shake and rumble itself into place. Casting one last look around the empty corridor, Helena slowly turned the handle, awaiting to hear the soft  _ click  _ before pushing on it lightly, allowing it to fall open silently. Once she’d entered the room, she closed it in the same fashion, quiet and carefully. For a moment, she felt a peace--that was, before somebody spoke from behind her.

“Finally,” Harry sighed. It seemed as if he had been holding his breath, anxious for the arrival of either one of his two friends. “We’re just waiting on Neville now.” 

As Helena turned to face him, she was taken aback by how the Room of Requirement looked--for some reason, she had assumed it would assume the look of how it was when Dumbledore’s Army had inhabited it. Instead, it was quaint, just like any other professor’s office in the castle, with a warm fire flickering away in the grand stone fireplace at the other end of the room. Three maroon chairs sat around it, one for each of them, and a cabinet over in the corner. Helena wasn’t sure what that was for--supplies perhaps? It was the Room of Requirement, after all, so whatever it was, it must be important. Tapestries of each house’s emblem hung on the right-hand wall. Vines and wondrous looking plants hung above them on the ceiling, unintrusive but beautiful to gaze at if one tilted their head back just a bit.

It smelled familiar, too. . . 

It smelled like coffee.

Helena breathed in the scent deeply. Even with knowing the topic they were about to discuss, she felt completely and utterly calm. Something about this room made her nerves die down a little.  _ Coffee.  _ The same that her grandfather used to brew, it seemed. But that was. . . impossible, right?

“Smells good, doesn’t it?” Harry said from his seat on the far left-hand chair. “Like the Quidditch pitch on a sunny morning.”

Helena’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion now. “The Quidditch pitch? I smell coffee.”

Harry’s expression reflected hers now. “Well, that’s curious,” he commented, more to himself than to her.

“Curious indeed,” she said slowly. She moved forward to her seat now, lowering herself slowly into the middle one. She was surprised to find how pleasantly comfortable it was. She was just about to say something about it when the door creaked open, revealing a harried looking Neville, who ran his fingers through his hair in distress.

“I’ve not had a feeling like that since I was a student here!” He said by way of greeting, and Helena and Harry tilted their heads at him, implying that they needed him to go on. “Filch,” he sighed, “finding me in the hallway, asking me all about what I was poking around in. Blimey, sometimes I think the old bloke thinks I’m still thirteen or something.” Then, before the other two could respond, Neville sniffed the air. He scrunched up his nose, completely distracted now. “Why does it smell like mothballs in here?”

Harry grinned with some humor now, fighting back an urge to laugh. “I dunno, Nev, why  _ does  _ it smell like mothballs in here?”

“Why do you have to go and say it like that?” Neville shook his head and sat down in the remaining seat, next to Helena. “You’re the one who conjured the place up, y’know. It’d be completely fair to give an explanation.”

Harry put his hands up and shrugged in what seemed like nonchalance. “Couldn’t tell you, mate. Sorry.”

A silence lapsed over them as they settled, all realizing what it was time for now. Neville rounded the chairs and sat. Harry followed in suit.

“You know,” Helena started after sitting there for a few moments, gazing at her hands, which she had folded on her lap, “we don’t  _ have  _ to talk about last night just yet.” She cast a wary glance to Harry, whose lips were now pressed tight as he looked into the fire.

“Of course we do,” Neville chimed from her side, and she averted her gaze to him, to see that he was sitting forward with his elbows propped on his knees, hands clasped together under his chin. “That was no ordinary thing we saw.”

“Of course,” Helena admitted under her breath, slightly ashamed--she should have known better than to suggest such a thing. They had been the only witnesses, after all, the only persons to be hip-deep in the investigation they’d started--besides, perhaps, maybe Anaid.

“Did it look. . .  _ injured _ to you at all?” Harry asked lowly, turning to them quizzically. It seemed that he had been mulling over this question for quite some time. 

“Injured?” Helena thought back to what she saw, bringing forth the vision of the memory with a sort of grimace. But as she replayed the scene in her head, slow-motion, fast-motion, and everything in between, she realized. . . “No, no it didn’t.”

“That’s what I thought,” Harry sank back into his seat, into his thoughts. 

After a thick silence had settled in around them, beginning to buzz in their ears, Helena hesitantly spoke up. “H--Harry?”

“Mmm?” He mumbled.

“Last night, I had a thought,” she remembered. “I was--I was extremely tired when it occurred to me, so I hope I don’t sound stupid, but I figure that you of all people would be able to confirm. . . What if it was a basilisk?”

Harry’s eyes flicked to hers now, pupils shrank down, and Helena knew that the word had immediately triggered something within him. She felt bad for bringing it up now.

“A basilisk?” He muttered. “Why would you think it was a basilisk?”

He seemed genuinely curious, but also very panicky. Perhaps she should not have said anything at all.

“It. . . slithered. The motion of it. . . It was unnatural.”

“It couldn’t have been,” Harry said softly, looking back toward the fire. “When I fought. . . When I saw the one in the Chamber. . . It wasn’t a basilisk, that’s for sure. It would have killed us with only a glance.” 

Helena bit her lip. She wasn’t entirely sure she could be confident that Harry was being unbiased at the moment. However, she kept her mouth shut. Though, it nagged at her that the creature had not noticed them at all. . . Never even lifted its face up to them. . .

“Did it slither?” Neville asked now, interrupting her train of thought. “I thought it was just crawling.”

This seemed to further push Harry to his end. He rubbed his face into his palms, pushing his glasses up away from his face, and groaned. Then, suddenly, he got to his feet, looking rather frustrated. 

“It feels like nothing ever adds up around here,” he ranted as he paced around behind them. “I defeat a  _ Dark Lord,  _ try to carry a normal life, and then as soon as I come back, it’s. . .  _ this.”  _

He wasn’t shouting, or angry, but rather just exhausted sounding. Bothered. Helena understood as best as she could--though, he  _ had  _ been one of the duo that had suggested going into the Forest in the first place. . .

Helena swallowed this thought. It was not worth saying--it wasn’t Harry’s fault that they had ended up seeing something so dramatic, gruesome, disgusting. She scolded herself now--Harry had asked for this just as much as she had, which was not at all.

She reverted back to her original stance, dropping every pretence of any suggestions she had from before. “Perhaps it’s all just circumstance,” she tried to reason, to soothe him. They needed him to be calm, to not be so overwhelmed. “Perhaps Anaid was just jittery about being near the Forest, and cast a spell wrong in her anxiety, and--and--well, you know. What I’ve been saying all along.” At least, what she  _ felt  _ like she’d been saying.

Harry kept pacing. Neville didn’t offer into the discussion--he looked busy trying to digest the conversation and come up with his own theories.

Helena reached out as Harry turned and halted him. He looked startled, and looked down to her.

“Harry,” she told him, “this isn’t worth it.” 

“Isn’t worth it?” He drew his eyebrows together, as if trying the words out for the first time. 

Helena sighed. “It isn’t worth it,” she repeated for good measure. “I know it scared us and I know it’s not something normal that we saw, but I feel like that sort of stuff happens in the Forbidden Forest all the time. Unicorn blood is vital, correct?”

Harry nodded, speechless.

“Right. So maybe some creature saw a downed unicorn and took advantage of it. And the unicorn tripped over a rock previously, or something like that. Whatever it was, maybe it was completely unrelated to our scared student. And we need to accept that. Because making this into something bigger than what it actually is isn’t worth the headaches, or losing nights of sleep, or”--she motioned around the room--“having to set up secret rendezvous points.”

Helena’s lip was trembling slightly now--she felt a sort of strangeness as these words came out of her mouth, as if she didn’t truly believe them herself, but was telling others to. 

So it was to her great amount of shock when Harry rounded the seats, collapsed back into his chair, and said: “You’re right.”

Helena’s mouth went dry. “I am?”

“Absolutely. We had our noses where they shouldn’t have been anyway. It’s just. . . My gut keeps saying. . .”

She sagged her shoulders now. “Mine too,” she admitted.

“So what do we do then? Should we ignore it? Should we keep going?” Neville finally asked.

Helena sighed. “Maybe we should. . . wait it out.”

“Wait it out?” Both Neville and Harry asked in unison, eyebrows raised toward their hairlines.

“Yeah, wait it out. We keep what happened last night in mind, and. . . I don’t know. . . see if maybe anything else pops up.”

“Keep tabs,” Neville added.

“Exactly.”

“That may just be the best we can do right now,” Harry realized. “Even I know we aren’t kids anymore, we can’t just--you know--”

“I know,” Helena confirmed for him, even though she’d never had a chance for a grand adventure even when she was a student at the school. She’d heard all about Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s shenanigans, though. “You know,” she thought out loud, “I could also do some research in the library. See what creatures inhabit the Forest and match that one’s description.” It would be difficult, she thought silently to herself, considering she’d really only witnessed a glimpse before Neville had pulled her away.

“Blimey, that’s a spectacular idea!” Neville burst as Harry smirked in his chair.

“You sound like Hermione,” he pointed out fondly.

“Stop! I do not,” Helena laughed now. “I’m just Helena.”

“Okay, sure then. Just Helena. That is a splendid idea, I think.”

“Wonderful. I think I’ll head there now, if you two don’t mind?” Helena rose to her feet.

“Right now?” Harry asked. 

“What better time to start?” She picked up her satchel and shouldered it, sliding between her seat and Neville’s to make way for the door. “Unless you boys have anything else to say that I’d be interested in?”

Neville and Harry shared a look before turning back to her. “No, I guess not,” Neville said.

“Go on then,” Harry shrugged, lip jutted out just slightly. Did they seem disappointed? Surely not, she figured.

“Right. Goodnight then, you two,” she bid them. “And thanks again for the treats,” she added as she rustled her bag, which was full of them. Then it was out the door she slipped, into the shadowy hallway, lit only by Mrs. Norris’s lamp-like eyes that seemed to scold her from a slight distance away. “Oh, scram,” Helena waved her away. “Surprised you’re still even  _ alive. _ ” The eyes obediently disappeared from view, likely off to go tell Argus Filch and make a big mess of things.

Down the hallway Helena strode, on a mission now to march straight to the library and uncover as many books as she could on the subject of Forbidden Forests. Already she had hundreds of questions formulating in her head; Was theirs a unique Forest? Would they all be inhabited by the same creatures considering the climate? Were unicorns common enough creatures amongst those special cases that were indeed Forbidden Forests?

She hoped-- _ prayed,  _ even--that these questions would be answered by  _ some  _ book in the library. She quickened her pace.

When she finally found herself at the library’s doors, she was at first taken aback by one thing: How completely and utterly the same it looked, virtually unchanged since her days of roaming the halls. She hadn’t known what she’d been expecting, really, but even a shelf or two being switched around or moved would have made sense. But no--it was all in order, like an old friend waiting with its arms wide open. She smiled to herself. This task suddenly got marginally easier.

“Madam Pince?” She called out as she walked in slowly, peering around the empty room. 

“Hush!” Hissed a voice from two shelves over. Helena went to follow it. “Who is there?”

“It’s me, Madam Pince, Helena Borington? I’m not sure if you’ll remember me--I’m a professor now.”

Madam Pince poked her little head out from behind the shelf she had been loading books onto. Her face cracked into a smile--or, at least, what Helena  _ thought  _ might be her smile. It was difficult to tell. “Helena Borington,” Madam Pince mused. “I’ll be damned.”

“Yeah--hi, Madam Pince,” Helena waved shyly. “Listen--I need a favor.”

“What could that be?” Madam Pince asked as she pushed her spectacles up her nose a bit more.

“I need every book you have that deals with the topic of Forbidden Forests, if you have any. Could you point me in the right direction?”

“Let me think, now,” Madam Pince mumbled to herself as she rounded the shelf, revealing her short, plump body to match her little old head. “There are some works by Miranda Goshawk that  _ mention  _ Forbidden Forests; and then another by Newt Scamander--that one would be  _ Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,  _ of course--”

Helena hurriedly flipped her satchel open and dug around for a quill and piece of parchment to begin writing the recommendations down as Madam Pince rattled them off.

Madam Pince moved away from her now, walking her tiny little legs over to the ladder she had propped against the bigger shelves. “Let’s see--I should have up here. . .” She climbed the ladder quite fast for someone her age, Helena thought in complete wonder, as Madam Pince shimmied on up toward the tip-top. She waited patiently as Madam Pince skimmed her fingers over the leather spines, and was taken by surprise when she slid one out of its place and tossed it down to her. She scrambled to catch it.

“That one should do it, sweetheart,” Madam Pince called down to her. “It’s  _ A Study of Forbidden Forests and the Creatures That Lie Within,  _ by Madron Lois.”

Helena quirked her eyebrows up in surprise, staring down at the navy blue and silver-embroidered cover. It was oddly specific, and it was  _ perfect. _

“Thank you!” She exclaimed, voice higher than she’d intended for it to be. But truly, she was thankful--she could not have dreamed of finding this in a thousand years among all these books, no matter how much of a library sleuth she considered herself to be. 

“You’re quite welcome, dear,” Madam Pince replied as she began to lower herself carefully down the ladder. “And if you need anything more, I’m sure I can find you something else. I’ve got books by the bucketsful.”

“I know,” Helena beamed. “But really, this is just perfect. I’m sure I won’t need anything else.”

After maintaining a small talk with Madam Pince for a few more minutes, Helena could simply not bear waiting anymore--she bid the old woman goodnight and immediately, with a mission, headed for her office to stow away and read into the night. She gripped the book with all her might, as if it were threatening to jump from her arms and run away at any moment. She was almost down the stairs when she heard the faint tinny of voices off to the side. She halted, as if standing still would throw her into invisibility, and listened close.

“. . .poking around on the grounds, ma’am. And today I caught Longbottom snooping around the corridor where the Room of Requirement’s supposed to be--he disappeared before I could catch him--”

“That’s  _ Professor  _ Longbottom to you, Mr. Filch,” came Professor McGonagall’s brisk voice. “Honestly, I am astonished by how you feel so comfortable throwing such accusations around so liberally. I’ll have you know that Professor Borington was near the top of her class in her year, as well as was prefect for some time. I highly doubt that, as an adult in this castle, she would go about breaking rules. She’s got an example to set and I highly doubt that she would be using her position in such a frivolous manner.”

Helena shifted on her feet uneasily now. Guilt had settled over her, but not strong enough to override the fact that Filch had been  _ watching.  _ He knew.

“But ma’am, please--” Came his wheezy voice.

“Argus, I’d rather not hear anymore about it, now,” Professor McGonagall seemed to scold slightly. “I’ve always known you had a contention for our students, but I never figured it would carry over into their adulthood. Now, a good night to you.”

Her footsteps began to sound nearer and nearer. Helena had to move, and quickly.

Down the stairs she practically flew, hustling away from wherever Professor McGonagall was. She whipped around the corner, not toward her quarters but rather in the direction of the Room of Requirement, where she was praying Neville and Harry were still dwelling. Anxiously she paced before the invisible door, chewing on the tip of her fingernail as she waited, and, finally, the door appeared. She practically launched through it, grateful that she had not been seen by anybody else up until that moment.

“Filch is onto us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I am so sorry if this chapter seems off or badly written, I really had to muscle through it! Coping with a bit of writer's block right now :( Thank you always for reading <3


	10. The Boring Club

Harry and Neville either looked completely amused or incredulous. “What happened?” Neville asked, mouth quirked up in a--yes, that was it--an amused smile. He was clearly  _ amused  _ by the sight of a breathless Helena.

Helena realized she must look absolutely wild then, and attempted to recompose herself, smoothing her hair back away from her face and clearing her throat. She stood back up to full height.

“I overheard him speaking with Professor McGonagall,” she explained. Then, imitating Argus Filch’s voice, she said, “‘Poking around on the grounds. Today I caught Longbottom snooping around the corridor where the Room of Requirement’s supposed to be’--and so on.”

A laugh bubbled out of Harry’s chest then. “Yep, that’s exactly what Filch sounds like.”

“Killer impression, Hels,” Neville joined.

Helena’s cheeks warmed. “Aren’t you guys concerned at all?”

Harry shrugged, much more nonchalant than he had been before. “As long as he doesn’t  _ catch  _ us, we’ll be alright, I think.” 

Helena was astounded, to say the least. Hadn’t he warned them just earlier of Filch? Sputtering, she asked, “Well, then what if Professor McGonagall does?”

Harry paled now, the reaction she had been semi-hoping for. “Let’s not think about that, yeah? Now, Neville and I were just about to head off to bed. You’ll likely do well to think of doing the same--it’s getting late.”

Helena swallowed and relaxed a bit--Harry’s reaction had proved to her that perhaps Filch was no figure to fear anymore. As she’d heard in the hallway, he didn’t seem to hold much power with the teachers, after all. “Alright,” she tried to sound casual; despite her calming down a bit, her heart was still racing from the encounter.

“Would you like for one of us to walk you?” Neville offered as he and Harry began to approach the door. Behind them, the once-roaring fire began to dim to coals, signifying their leaving.

“Wha--no, no, that’s alright,” Helena beamed, as she dismissed his generosity; she appreciated it, she really did, but: “I can handle myself, you know.”

Neville shrugged. “I figured as much.”

Awkwardly, the three of them filed out of the Room of Requirement, one by one, slowly so as to avoid causing a sudden cluster in the hallway. By the time it was Helena’s turn to exit, she found herself along on the other side of the door, Neville and Harry already peeled off toward their own chambers. Tucking the book away in her robes, she started her way toward her own, deep in thought--if Harry wasn’t concerned about Filch, then what was the purpose of all the sneaking around? Then again, she realized, it may not have been Filch he was scared of all along, but rather the hawkish presence of Professor McGonagall. For that, Helena could not blame him at all. If she hadn’t made it evident already, McGonagall scared the daylights out of her. 

“Professor Borington, what are you doing roaming the halls? It’s late, and it is not your place in the rotation to monitor.”

Helena froze. It had been like a bad jinx, thinking about McGonagall. Trying to wipe the anxiety and--perhaps it was fear?--off of her face, she turned slowly on her heel, much more aware of the presence of the library book pressing against her ribcage.

Professor McGonagall looked awfully stern. Filch had likely made her irritable--not good at all. She quirked a wiry eyebrow features almost bird-like in the torchlight. 

“S-sorry Professor,” Helena stammered out, feeling silly, as if she were still a child. “Just. . . just had to do some research. In the library,” she quickly added.

_ No, no, no! Oh, why couldn’t she think of a better lie?! _

“Research?” McGonagall repeated. “On. . . ?”

“Wumblewalts,” Helena said slowly, awkwardly, grasping for anything. “A creature similar to the cornish pixie.”

“And. . . why?” McGonagall seemed utterly bewildered as to why  _ wumblewalts  _ would permit a midnight roaming of the castle. 

“One of my students spoke of them in class,” Helena tumbled on recklessly, hoping the Headmistress could not see her ears for how red they likely were. “I was curious--I never heard of such a thing.”

McGonagall pressed her lips together, into a thin line; then, she took Helena aback, and  _ smiled,  _ the lines on her face relaxing.

“You always were so hungry for more knowledge,” she said fondly now, in a complete change of tone. “It’s a trait I’ve always admired in you. It’s good to see that you never left such a quality behind.”

Helena could have very well deflated from the amount of relief that overtook her. She smiled weakly, saying, “Yes.” It was all she could get out.

“And here I thought--well, you must forgive me--here I thought you were poking around in things you shouldn’t be.” She chuckled, as if this was entirely too funny. Helena tried to laugh with her, but failed miserably--it sounded as if she were being choked. McGonagall did not seem to notice. “Filch really got in my head for a moment there.” She shook it, as if to physically clear it of all suspicion.

Helena feigned confusion, trying to really play the act. “Whatever do you mean, Professor?”

“Well--” McGonagall made eye contact then, and paused, hesitant. “Never mind. It’s really nothing at all, Miss Borington.” And like that, the subject was dropped. “You’ll be off to bed then?”

“Yes ma’am,” Helena nodded. Her adrenaline was starting to ebb away, thankfully.

“Goodnight, then,” McGonagall bid her. “Happy Halloween.”

“Happy Halloween, Professor.” Once McGonagall disappeared around the corner, Helena’s jelly-like legs began to carry her away from the scene, and they did not stop until that had safely arrived in her chambers.

A week had passed by since the trio’s meeting in the Room of Requirement, and not a word had been spoken about it between them since. 

Geradine Vance had not forgotten about her own conference with Helena, and showed it by approaching her each day after class to gather her specially-made extra credit and promptly remind Helena about the club idea on her way out the door. Helena had indeed not forgotten about the club--in fact, in a change of pace, she spent most of her free time (which, to be fair, was scarce) brainstorming titles for it.

As the middle of November neared, Helena arrived to breakfast one brisk morning bearing a list, sitting down with such a huff that it caused Harry to lift his brows at her.

“And what would that be?” He gestured toward the list, swallowing a bite. Neville leaned forward in his own seat to partake in the conversation.

“Club names,” Helena sighed as scoured over it once more, sticking her tongue slightly out of the corner of her mouth in contemplation. If she had a pen, she would have undoubtedly been clicking the top repeatedly.

“Club names, eh? For what?” Neville inquired with interest.

“I had a student approach me about a potions club,” she told them. “I’ve still got to take the idea to Professor McGonagall for permission, but I would really like to have a solid name idea first.”

“Well,” Harry began as he scooted forward. “What’ve you got so far?”

Helena felt hesitant, but read down the list anyway. “‘The Boring Club,’ ‘Potions Plus Club,’ and ‘Professional Potions Masters of the Future Club.’” She felt slightly stupid--none of these had the same flair as “The Slug Club” to her. It made her grimace.

Harry was chuckling, but stopped once he saw her face. Neville tried to seem encouraging. “I like ‘The Boring Club.’”

Harry cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s got a bit of humor to it.”

“But would kids be inclined to join then?” Helena asked despairingly, already knowing the answer. Picking up on her fret, Neville looked to her genuinely. “You’ll get it eventually. And whenever you do, it’ll be alluring and fantastic, I’m sure.”

Helena smiled at this shyly. This made her feel slightly better. “Thanks, Nev.” She sat the list aside and began to help herself to some scrambled eggs.

At that moment, in came the usual flood of the post owls in a mess of feathers over the Great Hall, dropping rolled up Daily Prophets from their clutches into the laps of students. Helena was relieved to see some Quibblers dotted amongst the influx of such tabloid, but was quickly taken away from this thought as a letter was dropped plum into Harry’s lap.

“Who’s that from?” Neville asked curiously as Harry lifted the heavy envelope and read the front.

“Just Ginny,” he smiled then, popping the wax seal open with his thumb. Neville and Helena watched on in interest. It took a few moments, but Harry eventually had the parchment from within unfolded before him, and his eyes skittered down the contents hastily. As he went from one word to the next, his face grew more and more serious--his eyebrows drew so close together that they began to look like one solid unibrow. Helena went from excited for him to concerned.

“What is it, Harry?” She asked, worried--was it bad news? Had somebody passed away?

“I--I’ve got to go,” Harry rose from his seat suddenly, the chair scraping back loudly against the stone floor with dramatic flourish. He scrambled for his jacket dangling off the back of it. “I’ll tell you guys about this later, promise--” And away he dashed, the rest of his breakfast left untouched and mysterious letter from Ginny still clutched in one hand.

Bewilderment on each of their faces, Neville picked up the abandoned manila envelope to see if anything else might be inside to give them an indicator to the emergency. Alas, there was nothing.

“What could Ginny have possibly said to make him act in such a way?” He wondered out loud, scrunching up his nose in thought.

“Dunno,” Helena shrugged, looking after where Harry had disappeared out of the Great Hall. “I suppose we’ll find out later, like he said?”

“Guess so.”

A contemplative silence settled between the two of them as they ate a bit more on their food. Neville was the one to break it, changing the subject.

“So, what’s on your agenda for today?”

“Well, of course I’ve got classes to teach, and then perhaps I’ll go see Professor McGonagall about the club if I manage to come up with a catchy enough name between now and this evening.”

“How about after your classes, you come down to the greenhouses and I’ll help you brainstorm?” He suggested, and it was hard for Helena to avoid looking shocked.

“You would do that for me?” She asked, a note of sentimentality in her voice.

Neville wiped his hands on his jeans, shrugging. “Of course I would.”

Helena smiled to herself. “Alright then.” She began to gather up her satchel and her list. “I’ll see you then?”

Neville stuck his tongue in his cheek, as if he were going to say something else, but decided on just nodding. “See you then.” And off Helena parted ways with him, determined to reach her classroom before the morning bell was due to dismiss the bustles of students from their breakfasts and send them begrudgingly to their morning classes.

Shortly after she’d placed herself behind her desk, in trudged her sleepy-eyed first years, books tucked under their arms or spilling out of frayed bags. Despite their seeming grouchiness--it was a Monday, after all--Helena greeted them all with a warm smile. Some of them returned it, like Geradine. Others did not, like Elijah Winstaff.

“Good morning,” she greeted them, to which there was a response much like a collective groan. “I trust you all had a good weekend.”

“I did,” said one girl in the front row, Marla Lowe. 

“Good to hear, Marla. Anyone else?” 

Nobody answered. Helena plowed on ahead.

“Alright. Today we will not be doing any brewing; instead, we will begin preparations for our big final project before the Christmas holidays. Now, if you’ll open your books to page five hundred and forty-seven. . .”

Though she was trying to stay spritely, Helena had to admit that her classes for the day were a bit of a drag. She expected such behavior on the daily, of course, but today it was especially worse--almost as if a fog had settled over each student’s head and clouded it all up. Even Griffin Pritchard and Nicolas Rearden weren’t up to their usual shenanigans, which had Helena rather suspicious at first--though, by the end of class, she was surprised when they walked out the door without a single disruption under their belts. 

So it was a bit of a change in pace when a fight broke out in her last class for the evening. 

It had really been uneventful up until that --she had been having the students jot down a quick paragraph about the properties of sopophorous beans when the first comment was made.

“Oi, Melbinger--d’you reckon that if your blood wasn’t so dirty, then maybe Anaid might actually consider you?”

Helena didn’t look up fast enough to see who had made the remark, but she did make it just in time to watch the anger flutter across Fars Melbinger’s face. Anaid’s own face reddened beside him, and she sent him a nervous glance as she said softly, “Don’t, Fars.”

“Can you hear me, Melbinger? Or are your ears too full of dirt?” 

It was a student Helena was not very familiar with--a Gryffindor, named Davis. He wore a sneer like a badge.

“Speak like that again and you’ll be sent straight to Headmistress McGonagall’s office,” Helena warned, an unusual harsh edge to her tone--she had been wondering when this might happen.

Davis looked away from Fars for a moment, and hardly tried to wipe the snark off his face. Helena wasn’t exactly sure what had prompted this harassment, but knew it was her responsibility to take care of it as not only an authority figure, but a human being. 

Just as she returned to her own work, Davis’s voice came again. He had terribly attempted to lower his voice.

“Of course you’ve got the half-breed vouching for you,” he carried on, and before Helena could say anything, Fars was on his feet and throwing a punch.

The entire classroom erupted. Anaid screeched in horror, holding out her hands in attempt to grab Fars; other students were scrambling toward the edges of the room, attempting to avoid the fray of the fight (though some remained in their seats, eager for a bit of excitement, cheering either Fars or Davis on); and now Davis was stumbling back against another pair of students’ shared desk, blood spurting out of his nose and a crescent moon of blackness surfacing around his eye. It wasn’t long before he was able to gather his senses and shove back on Fars, who sent his and Anaid’s brew setup clattering to the floor as he braced himself back against their table. He was steeling to continue on when Helena shouted “PROTEGO!”

Instantly, an ethereal wall cast itself from Helena’s wand to right between Fars and Davis, who were seething with anger. The other students watched on in wonder. Fars’s chest was rising and falling dramatically, and Helena could tell he was still itching to do more. 

“Class dismissed early,” Helena declared through gritted teeth. “Davis, I want you to march all the way to Headmistress McGonagall’s office and pay her a visit. I’ll be up there shortly, so don’t think you can just skip out now.”

“And what about him?” Davis demanded, eyeing Fars with a blazing, crazed look. Blood was still dribbling down his face.

“He’ll be staying with me,” Helena said matter of factly. She nodded to one of the taller boys in the room, Gryffindor’s Head Boy. “Benjamin, if you could please escort Mister Michael to Headmistress McGonagall’s office, please.”

Benjamin nodded promptly, and stepped forward awkwardly. Glaring at both Helena and Fars, Davis stepped away begrudgingly, practically stomping away up the stars. The classroom came to a standstill for a few moments, as if everybody was too afraid to move until Davis and Benjamin’s footsteps had receded away. 

More gently now, Helena reiterated to them: “Class dismissed early. Please put what you all have done on your paragraphs on my desk, you’ll all get a participation grade. Fars”--she waved the Protego charm away with one movement of her wand now--“if you’ll stay here with me, please.”

In silence, tension to talk about what just happened growing like a bubble in the atmosphere of the room, and without a doubt, the first chitter chatter began on the stairwell just outside the room. For a few moments, Helena stayed subdued and quiet, allowing Fars to cool down. When his anger seemed to start ebbing away is when she finally spoke.

“Are you alright?” She asked him genuinely, looking to him with softer eyes, placing a hand on his shoulder. Fars shrugged it away, facing the floor with a first bout of shame flickering in his eyes. 

“He just won’t lay off,” Fars sighed. “I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be the good guys.”

“Unfortunately,” Helena murmured, “ignorance is not reserved for just one House. It can be just as prevalent in Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff of Gryffindor. Slytherin has a reputation, sure, but that does not mean they are the only ones capable of hate.”

He finally glanced up to her now, eyes watering--Helena couldn’t tell if it was sadness or anger still. “I’m sorry for punching him,” he said.

“I know you are.”

“Does this mean I’ll get detention?”

“Yes, but I’ll make sure it’s away from him,” Helena assured him. “You’ll be with me, and I’ll do my best to have the offense expunged from your track record.” She gave him a small smile, which he returned as he sagged his shoulders with a bit of relief. 

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now, go shake this off in your dormitory. I’ve got to go up to Headmistress McGonagall’s office to see about Mister Michael.”

Off Fars slouched, and Helena watched him all the way out the door before she finally allowed herself to breathe. Never before had she been put in that position; even when she was prefect there weren’t very many instances that she had to put her foot down. 

Bracing herself for what she might meet up in McGonagall’s office, she squared her shoulders back and began her own trek up throughout the castle, grateful to not run into but a few students, who either greeted her momentarily or said nothing at all. As she arrived at the gargoyle guarding the entryway, she could feel her adrenaline pick up just slightly--confrontation was not a strong suit of hers. Hesitantly, she relayed the password (“Skiving snackbox”), and began her further ascent up the stairs.

The sight that greeted her at the top was not at all pleasant. Helena could practically feel Davis’s resentment fuming off of him and infecting the whole room; McGonagall sat across from him behind her desk, fingers steepled together and face pointed with contempt. Davis must have felt at least a little bit intimidated by this, as he was slouched way down in his seat, arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes lowered to look at anything else but the Headmistress.

“Perfect timing, Professor Borington. Have a seat.” McGonagall’s voice was sharp, quick, and punctuated. Helena wasted no time to come forward and sit in the leather chair opposite of the seething boy. “What. Happened.” It wasn’t a question, but a demand for information. Helena began to explain in the most professional way she could.

“Mister Michael here figured it appropriate to harass another student in my class, Fars Melbinger,” she said. “It was without provocation and led to Mister Melbinger losing his temper.”

“And what of Mister Melbinger?” McGonagall raised her brows at her.

“I kept him behind as Benjamin Foley escorted him up here to you. He indulged to me that this has apparently been happening for some time.”

“Is this true, Mister Michael?” McGonagall spoke to Davis now, scowl on her face.

Davis did not answer.

“If you truly wish to be difficult about it, then so be it,” McGonagall went on harshly. “I’ll just triple your detentions then, and perhaps even send a letter home to your parents. That sort of behavior is absolutely intolerable within the walls of this castle, and should be intolerable anywhere for that matter. You should be deeply ashamed of yourself; and the fact that you are from Gryffindor is positively scathing.”

Helena was surprised to see such disdain on McGonagall’s face. She wanted to express the same, but knew better than to speak over her superior.

McGonagall slid a blank piece of parchment toward her, and dipped a quill into a glass of ink. “This will be sent to your parents, to give them notice of your actions. We won’t call a meeting just yet, but if you continue to persist with this nonsense I’ll have no choice but to call them in. Do you understand?”

Still no answer from Davis.

“I would say something if I were you,” Helena told him, eyeing him coldly. 

“That’s alright, Professor Borington. Oftentimes, silence is a bigger indicator than words,” Professor McGonagall said pointedly, starting to scratch down the beginning of her letter with jutted movements. “You may go back to your dormitory now, Mister Michael, but do heed that if I find you out in the hallways any more this evening, I will promptly add another detention to your list. Out you go.”

Helena watched as the fuming Davis rose from his seat and practically stomped away, in disbelief of his attitude. Once she was gone, she turned to Professor McGonagall, who was scribbling hastily away at the parchment, undoubtedly still on edge but less so without Davis’s presence.

“Professor?” Helena asked, leaning forward in her seat curiously. “Did I handle that correctly?”

Professor McGonagall took a moment to stop her writing and lean back, nodding just ever so slightly. She then said, almost wistfully, “It is not every day that you find a teacher unwilling to severely punish both parties when only one’s offense was the greater hatred.”

Helena knew exactly what she meant and dropped her gaze. “I had hoped that people like Davis died out when--” She couldn’t finish; she didn’t know what words to use to properly frame a war.

McGonagall tsked, removed her spectacles, and pinched the bridge of her nose, rubbing it as if in deep thought. She then put down the quill and joined her hands together, laying them across her belly. She looked weary in this position. 

“Unfortunately, Miss Borington, that sort of nonsense will always have an underlying theme in not only our lives, but history. It is what we choose to do about it that makes all the difference.”

Helena did not realize that she needed to hear those words until now. “Thank you, Professor.”

McGonagall nodded just once, slowly, in acknowledgment. “Now, off you go. I’ve got a letter to write.” Her spectacles were returned to their place before her eyes, and she now bent over her desk once more.

“Good evening, then.” And Helena rose from her seat, dismissing herself from the room.

Back in the heart of the castle, Helena was greeted by a rather beautiful sight--with 5 o’clock approaching quickly, pure golden sunlight was spilling in through the arched windows, painting the old floors and giving the atmosphere an entirely new look. She knew exactly where she was going--not back to her classroom, office, or chambers, but rather out to the greenhouses, where Neville would certainly be waiting. Hopefully he would understand her being late--it hadn’t felt like it, but classes had ended an hour ago, meaning that her meeting with McGonagall and Davis had taken quite some time. If the news hadn’t already traveled that far, she would be able to tell Neville all about it before they started their brainstorming for club names. 

And so, in her first bout of calmness since the moment Davis had opened his mouth back in her classroom, Helena opened the grand doors in the Entrance Hall and stepped out into the cold air, allowing it to whip through her hair and wash over her face. 

And there he was--Neville Longbottom, standing at the bottom of the front steps, with the biggest grin she’d ever seen on his face.


	11. Greenhouse Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I feel like this chapter is complete and utter garbage, but I had SO much fun writing it. You guys have no idea haha. I hope you all enjoy and can see how much I loved writing this flaming trashcan. I also wanted to note that unfortunately, over the week in which I took my break from updating, I lost ALL my notes on this fanfic (that were stored on my laptop). So--er--if anything is said that goes against what's canon in this story already, I'm sorry! Two hundred pages is a lot to wade through to check. ANYWAY. Much love to you all <3
> 
> (PS: I hope you all had happy holidays! A happy New Year to you!)

“There you are! I was just about to come looking for you--how was it? Did you get bit? Scratched? Punched?  _ Jinxed? Hexed? _ ”

So he knew, Helena thought. She gave him a smug look. “Don’t be ridiculous, I stopped it before any of them could try that nonsense.” She met him on the stairs then, and they both began their way toward the greenhouses, Neville only slightly leading. He seemed a bit too excited about this whole thing.

“Oh, come on, there had to be  _ something _ .”

Helena thought. “Well, one of them punched the other in the face, but that’s about it. The latter had a terrible bloody nose, and a black eye.”

“Did he deserve it?”

Helena gave pause, but then admitted it: “Hell yeah. He absolutely did.”

Neville seemed taken aback, surprised by this unexpected answer. “Wait, did he really?”

“Yeah. He was this close”--she held her index finger and thumb close together as an

indicator--“to using the M-slur. I couldn’t expect anybody to take that sort of harassment. Fars only did what most other kids are afraid to do—stand up for himself.” 

Neville puffed up his chest in a coy toughness. “‘Cept us Gryffindors, of course.”

Helena rolled her eyes. “Fars is a Ravenclaw. Bravery is not exclusive.”

Neville smiled. “I was only teasing, of course.”

They arrived outside the first greenhouse doors as the sun was quickly disappearing beyond the treeline of the Forbidden Forest. Neville began to fiddle with his set of keys as Helena waited patiently, gazing out over the dying grounds--winter was sweeping in quickly, if it wasn’t already here. She would never admit such a childish thing, but she secretly had her fingers crossed that there would at least be snow by Christmas--so far, there had only been nasty sleet and rain, a plague on the bare-bones grounds. The last Quidditch match they’d had, which had been about a week before, was so dreadfully frigid that Helena had considered more than once trudging back up to the castle for a hot drink before the final scores were even close to being called. But Hufflepuff had played, and she would have been damned if she didn’t see things through with them, her heart up with every team member in the sky that day. 

And then they had won, and that had made it all worth it--especially when Eddard Baxter was absolutely beside himself with delight. A team dogpile had ensued once everybody was grounded, Eddard right on top, beaming as if they had just won a world championship, not a start-of-season game.

“There we are,” Neville said finally, snapping Helena from her reminiscent thoughts as the door creaked open. He turned to her. “After you, then.”

Always amused and somewhat flattered by his gentlemanliness, Helena strode through the door with her head held up in mock ladyship. “Well, thank you, my good man.”

“My pleasure,” Neville returned in step with her teasing, and what made it all the better was the fact that they didn’t even have to fake their British accents. 

“Right then, it’s down to business then?” Helena asked as she walked slowly around the room, observing the plants once more--it never failed to put her in awe that Neville really took care of all of these and more. “Gee, Nev, this is always so incredible.”

“Always?” Neville raised his brows, smiling at the compliment. “You’ve only visited twice, how would you know?” Another tease.

“Guess I’ll have to make a point of dropping by more often,” Helena said, looking over to Neville, whose mouth quirked up into a lopsided smile. He then cleared his throat.

“Don’t get visitors here often.”

“Really? Not even Harry?”

Neville shook his head and gave a chuckle. “Harry doesn’t want to have anything to do with plants. He’s more of a--I dunno--a  _ jock _ , I suppose.” He quickly added, “No offense to him.”

“May I touch this?” Helena asked as she came up to a pretty looking flower, asking permission before carrying on conversation. Neville had started to lean against a worktable, but jolted up as she raised her hand up toward the plant. 

“Er--you probably wouldn’t want to without gloves, but this one”--he took her arm and guided it toward another plant a few feet away--“is practically velvety to the touch. You’ll probably like it more.”

Slowly, Helena retreated her arm away from Neville’s releasing fingertips, smile crossing her lips. “Thanks.” This close, she could smell a musk of some kind on him--cedar, maybe, mixed with the underlying scent of soil he had undoubtedly been working with all day.

“Yeah.” Neville cleared his throat again, but before he could speak, Helena turned to the plant and began examining it as she said, “Do you think Harry’s alright?”

Neville shrugged and leaned against the worktable, idly fingering the plant beside Helena’s. “I dunno,” he sighed. “I haven’t seen him all day, have you?”

Helena shook her head. “Nope. I hope everything’s alright.” She took her hand away from the velvety plant now and reached into her pocket, where her fingers closed around her list from breakfast that morning. It was her turn to clear her throat now, in a change of subject--if they stayed on theorizing where Harry might be, it would take ages to get to their original task. “So--names for the club.”

“Right,” Neville nodded. “Have you thought of anymore?”

“Not since the disaster from my classroom today,” she lamented. “It’s still the same as it was this morning.”

Neville sucked in a breath. “That’s rough.”

Pretending to be wounded by this, Helena said, “Speak your truth then.”

Neville put his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey now, you wanted it.”

She had him there. She sighed in a playful defeat, pouring back over the list for a moment before deciding the extreme--crumpling it up and throwing it away.

“Whoa, now,” Neville raised his brows, “They weren’t  _ that  _ bad.”

Helena was resolute, though. “We need to start fresh instead of with. . . whatever  _ that  _ garbage was.” She tossed the junk parchment toward a barrel that was meant to suffice as a trash can. Upon her missing, Neville swooped down and snatched it up, throwing it away properly.

“If you say so,” he shrugged, going with the flow. 

They settled into a comfortable silence then, as Helena tapped her chin thoughtfully, zoning out on a panel of the greenhouse. She barely even registered it when Neville stirred and asked earnestly, “What’s your middle name?”

Startled, Helena looked at him; he was already gazing at her. “What?”

— “Your middle name? Maybe we could do a play of words off it.”

“Oh.” That hadn’t occurred to her. “Er--it’s kind of stupid.”

“Nonsense. Can’t be any worse than mine.”

Eyeing him warily, Helena caved in. “Alright then--here goes--it’s Margarethe.”

“Helena Margarethe,” Neville repeated softly, trying the name out on his tongue. “That’s not stupid. That’s beautiful.”

A blush crept across Helena’s cheeks now, dreadfully warm against the cool air of the greenhouse. “It was my grandmother’s,” she explained, tugging at her sleeve. “My father, he--well, he wanted to honor her memory, I suppose.”

“Honor her memory?” Neville asked, confused. 

“Yeah--er--” Helena scrambled to change the subject--the story behind her middle name was surely one for another time, as right now it would weigh the current lively conversation down like a cement block. “What’s yours?”

“Franklin,” Neville confessed, dropping his eyes as he said it. “After my dad.”

“Neville Franklin Longbottom,” Helena repeated, trying to mimic what he’d done with her name. “I like that. It really has a ring to it.”

Neville lifted his eyes back up, a strained smile on his face. “Yeah, it does.” It was his turn to veer away from the subject before it could go on for any longer. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but I’m not sure that we could play off of the name ‘Margarethe’ for a club title.”

Helena felt dejected, but had to admit to herself that she had expected this. “I figured.” She dug deep for any inspiration now. “My grandfather used to call her Grete for short, if that’s any help.”

Neville waved this away. “Probably not.” He furrowed his brow, deep in thought, and began to slowly pace the room. “Do you know synonyms for the word ‘potion?’”

It was Helena’s turn to furrow her own brow. “I think--elixir, brew, concoction. . .”

“All good words. . . Have you thought about using any word other than ‘club?’”

“Huh. I suppose I haven’t. Let’s see. . . There’s organization, or association, or society. . .”

She drifted off then, and they both settled into contemplation. It was hard for Helena to avoid biting down on her lip, a nervous habit she’d weaned herself off of long ago--the pain and sores were not worth it. Instead, she settled for biting the inside of her cheek, which wasn’t much better, but at least back away from the front and center of her face. She had noticed that Neville had taken to nibbling on the end of his thumb.

“Concoction Congregation?” She suggested half-heartedly eventually, trying to break up the silence. Better to get the ball rolling than say nothing at all.

Neville shook his head. “Heart’s not in it, it sounds like.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” She was glad to have somebody so willing to point these things out, rather than compliment her on something dumb. 

Neville began to hum as he sank back into a seriousness. Helena didn’t recognize the song; perhaps it was a random beat. In all her honesty, it was sort of funny to see Neville taking this just as earnestly as she was. She continued to brainstorm.

And then, after what felt like minutes, Neville paused abruptly and turned to her with bright eyes. “I’ve got it, I think,” he declared.

Helena assumed an expression to implore him to continue on. “What is it?”

“ What about. . . about. . . Brew Crew?” Neville tried out loud. Helena's heart practically leapt at the sound of this.

“ _ Brew Crew _ !” She exclaimed happily, suddenly, slapping the palm of her hand to her forehead. “How did I not think of that?! Brew Crew! Neville, that’s absolutely genius!” She was all smiles now as she did a little victory dance, similar to the moment when she had received her acceptance letter from Headmistress McGonagall. “Oh, Nev, I could kiss you right now!”

In all her rejoicing, she failed to notice the blush that had flushed Neville’s cheeks from pale to a rosy red. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh, it was--you know--it was really no problem at all. Just a little bit of thinking--”

“I can finally go to Professor McGonagall about this! Thank you, Nev!” Helena continued on, completely caught up in herself; without thinking, she threw her arms around him in a hug, reservations about such an action forgotten. When she pulled away, she immediately started for the door.

Not given much time to recover from this all--Helena’s hug had taken him by complete surprise--Neville held his hand out after her. “Wait--Hels! Here, I want to come with you.” He took out his keys to lock up after their leaving, jogging to catch up with the excited girl. Stifling some laughter at her shining face, he hurried to jiggle the lock until it clicked, quickly casting an extra charm over the chain before striding back toward the castle with the bouncing Helena. 

However, just before they reached the steps, it was as if a cloud had settled over her. She paused. 

“What’s the matter?” He asked, noticing the look on her face. His pace slowed until he came to a complete stop.

Helena shook her head. “She’ll not be in the mood to hear it tonight,” she realized. “Not after the situation with Davis. We’ll have to wait until her mood improves.” She sighed. “Damn.”

Neville was quick to try and lift her spirits. “Hey, that’s alright!” He racked his brain to occupy hers with something different, considering she looked just a tad dejected, a complete one-eighty from her sprightliness from just moments before. “We’ve still got time before we have to be in the castle for the night--would you want to go to Hogsmeade for a quick drink or something?”

But Helena shook her head. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d really like to go back to the greenhouses.” She looked over to him, smiling the smallest of smiles. “That way you can properly introduce me to all the plants, now that we have the time for it, of course.”

Neville was a bit surprised by this; she was genuinely interested, and she could tell his shock by the look on his face. “Of course!” He half-chuckled in astonishment. He then cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. Back we go then.”

Less enthusiastic now, yet still maintaining an interested energy, Helena followed him back to a new house, greenhouse three, where he swung the door wide open to let them in. “Let me show you my healthiest one. It’s been sort of my latest obsession, getting this one as full and great as it can be. Here--” He led Helena across the room much like a puppy, completely and utterly rapt by his own subject. She practically ran into him when he abruptly paused before a towering stalk, something that reached close to the ceiling of the greenhouse. Helena had to blink a few times to fully process it.

Neville turned to her with the biggest, most contagious smile on his face.

“This is my Wiggentree!” He puffed up his chest proudly. “Grew it myself, to avoid a Bowtruckle debacle of some sort.”

“Bowtruckles?” Helena asked curiously, eyeing the tree. “Can I get closer?”

“Yes, of course,” Neville answered, stepping aside to allow her to inspect the tree. “And Bowtruckles--I’m sure you know what those are--usually guard Wiggentrees in their natural habitats. Touch the trunk of one, and you’ll be safe from all dark creatures while doing so.”

Helena ran her fingertips gently along the line of one of the tree’s branches, tracing its body. “This is gorgeous, Nev.” And she really thought so, too.

He stared at the tree for a few more moments, proud, before looking to her and eventually moving on. “And this over here,” he went on, averting her attention, “this is my first plant I ever got. A mimbulus mimbletonia.” Helena watched as he looked at a small, succulent-looking thing with fond eyes. “My gran got it for me. They’re very rare, y’know.”

Without thinking, Helena moved to inspect the mimbulus mimbletonia in the same fashion she’d inspected the Wiggentree, only to be surprised by Neville holding an arm out to stop her. 

“Whoa,” he warned, “I wouldn’t touch it if I were you. Harry made that mistake when we were kids, and--er--it didn’t go very well.” He laughed awkwardly. “See the way it’s oddly shaped? Where a Muggle succulent would hold water, this plant holds pus. It--well, when you touch it--it spurts that pus out at you.” He then added as he looked at her with a slight of mischief on his face: “It smells, too.”

Helena wrinkled her nose disgust. “Of all the plants your gran could have given you, she had to get you the smelliest?” She then said hurriedly, “Not that it isn’t sweet or anything.”

Neville laughed and shrugged. “At least it was something other than another booklet on how to attract girls better.”

Helena put her hand on her hips then, fighting a giggle. “Neville, she didn’t.”

“You bet she did.”

“That’s awful.”

He shrugged again. “I was in need of work, she always thought.”

“I thought you were fine just the way you were.  _ Are _ . You know what I mean.”

He quirked his mouth up at the compliment. “Thanks,” he replied, almost abashedly. It was Helena’s turn to clear her throat, as she looked past him at all the rest of the plants in the room.

“What’s your most interesting plant?” She changed the subject now.

“My most interesting?” Neville looked as though he really had to think for a moment, and Helena imagined all of his plants sliding through his head, his brain calculating the best to show her at the moment. “Hm. Over here,” he finally said, stroking his stubbly chin and waving her over to the opposite side of the room. “This one,” he motioned, and  Helena watched on in a mixture of awe and confusion as he motioned to a simple pot filled to the brim with soil--it had no inhabitant, it seemed. She quirked a brow as he strode across the room and piddled with something in the corner. Was that a. . . ? No, it couldn’t be. . .

The scratch of a needle sounded a mere few moments later, static against a-- _ yes, that was it-- _ a record. Music began to emanate out, filling the room with a warmth that the wintry atmosphere had done a good job of taking away.

“The Beatles?” Helena burst in surprise. “Neville, how on earth--”

He smiled, folding his arms over his chest and nodding toward the pot. “Look.”

Helena dropped what she was saying immediately and turned, surprised to see that a stem of some sort was growing rapidly from the soil. Up its green leaves curled, like delicate vines, until they stunted into beautiful blossoms at the very end. Helena was in absolute wonder.

“Dean Thomas introduced me to them, of all people,” Neville spoke as The Beatles serenaded the alluring plant. On they crooned,  _ “Would you promise to be true? And help me understand. . .” _

“That is a  _ codariocalyx motorius,  _ but I call it ‘Comotorius’ for short, so my students remember it better,” Neville explained to her without a hint of condescension in his voice--something that caught her off guard, considering he was technically educating her on something she didn’t already know. “And it  _ loves _ The Beatles. Particularly this song, for some reason. Always comes out to bloom the fastest for it.”

_ “I must be sure from the very start. . .” _

“I’ve named it John Lennon. But that’s just for fun, and for when I’m in private.”

Helena allowed herself to laugh, but it wasn’t to tease--it was more in amusement mixed with admiration. “You’re not pulling my leg?”

“Honest to god,” Neville admitted, trying hard not to full-fledge smile as he put his hands up in a surrender of these little secrets. “And that one over there?” He pointed to something that looked similar to the Mimbulus mimbletonia, sitting right beside “John Lennon,” “That’s Yoko Ono, just because they look swell sitting together.”

Helena shook her head, still smiling. “Neville, that’s great.”

As the song came to a close, Helena was sad to see John Lennon go, as it sank back down into the earth of its pot, the blooms reverting back into their stems and the final bit of green slipping away with a final “fwump.” Helena noticed that the sun seemed to have completely disappeared away outside now, as the panels of the greenhouse were dark, and the torches were beginning to light at the command of Neville’s wand. He switched out the record and put a different one on, something classical.

“John Lennon hates the Yule Ball collection,” he said with a wink, and Helena sighed wistfully.

“You have a Yule Ball collection?” She asked, not even sure if she should be surprised by this.

“It was Gran’s,” he said. “I mostly use it for background music, when I’m working and need something to help me focus. It’s my only collection of instrumental songs.”

As the first song began, Helena was surprised at the memories that rushed back to her--or, rather, the memories that never had a chance to exist. “You know,” Helena started awkwardly, staring down at her feet now. She fidgeted with her hands—why was she suddenly so nervous? “I was never asked to the Yule Ball.”  _ Now why had she admitted that here and now? _

Neville looked to her in astonishment. “Really?”

“Well, I shouldn’t really say it like that,” she hurried to say. “I was, I guess, but—but—well—it turned out to be a joke.”

“A… joke?” Neville’s face was sketched in utmost curiosity. He looked as though he had a train of thought running at high speed behind his imploring eyes. 

“Yeah,” Helena laughed humorlessly. “I had been asked by—oh, well this is humiliating—by Vincent Crabbe.”

Neville’s mouth dropped. He also laughed, but not to make fun; it was more in disbelief. “ _ Vincent Crabbe? _ ” He reiterated, just for good measure to convince himself that she was saying the truth.

“And what’s hilarious is that I actually thought he might consider me seriously. My self esteem was… quite low, to say the least. So you can imagine how it felt when I turned out to be the laughing stock of the Slytherins. Nasty lot they could be, as you might know.”

“Trust me, I know,” Neville acknowledged. He looked at her, and she thought that maybe she saw the slightest twinkle of pity in his eyes. Something about that made her upset, but not necessarily at him. 

“It’s no big deal, really,” she quickly began to explain further. “I just didn’t end up going, is all. Though I heard it was splendid.” 

Neville shrugged. “It was alright. The decorations, I won’t deny, were quite spectacular. I’m not sure who did them.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, realizing that he might be rubbing it in. “But really, it was, well--”

“Don’t lie to me now, Neville. I’m an adult. I know it was loads of fun,” Helena teased him for all his tiptoeing. “Honestly, I should have gone anyway; to think that I wasted a night of fun just to sulk in my common room is so ridiculous to look back on. I was thirteen, thinking the world was ending, all because of  _ Vincent Crabbe.”  _ She threw her hands up at the absurdity of this reflection. 

“Vincent Crabbe’s a git, and it’s perfectly understandable that you reacted that way,” Neville said to her gently. “You know, if you want--”

He cut himself off then, and Helena raised her brows. “If I want. . . ?” She reiterated for him, but he looked away and waved the thought away.

“Never mind.”

“What?” Helena asked curiously now, side-eyeing him--she hated when people would do this to her, leading her on and then avoiding finishing their own thoughts.

But Neville shook his head. “It’s stupid. Forgive me.”

“Neville, come on.”

He still wouldn’t look at her, though. Instead, he changed the subject. “Should we head back up to the castle then.”

Helena wanted to huff at him then, and stamp her foot in disapproval--did he really think he could just  _ do that to her? _ “Neville Longbottom, you can’t just leave me wondering like that!”

But Neville matched her stride for stride in stubbornness. “Helena Borington, of course I can. We should really get going.” He then flipped the record off of its player and stowed it away, placing it on a small stack of other records below a work table. As he walked past her, Helena realized he meant it, and reluctantly followed after him to make their way up to the castle.

“First Harry, now you. You boys and your secrets,” she rolled her eyes.

“‘Snot a secret,” Neville shrugged awkwardly. “Just an unfinished thought. How come you’re so bothered by it?”

“Because!” Helena burst, flustered. “It had to do with  _ me.  _ If only--if only I were an Occlumens--”

Neville shuddered. “Why would you ever want to be an Occlumens?” He stuck his tongue out like the power was something disgusting.

“Well--I never said I  _ wanted _ to be one--that’s why I’m  _ not _ one--personally I think--”

“Helena,” Neville cut her off, “I was only teasing.”

Helena’s cheeks burned. “Of course you were.”

Up the steps they walked, Neville slightly leading once more. When they reached the doors, he opened one and allowed her through first as always, and as they stepped into the entrance hall, he turned to her.

“I know you can ‘handle yourself,’ but are you sure you wouldn’t like for me to walk you to your office?” He asked earnestly.

Slyly, Helena looked to him. “Neville, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were some good old fashioned lover-boy,” she poked fun at him. To this, he gave a sportive bow.

“Gran’s booklets weren’t for nothing, then,” he winked roguishly, and Helena laughed. “So, what do you say?”

Helena thought for a moment, and then opened her mouth to actually accept his offer this time around. However, she was cut off by a voice to her side.

“Neville! Helena! I’ve been looking all over for you! Listen, I’ve got  _ splendid  _ news!”


	12. Post from Potter and Lovegood

Harry had insisted that before he disclosed anything about his day, the three of them should take to the Room of Requirement for a bit of privacy. Neville and Helena obliged this--they were so curious to find out about Harry’s day that their entire conversation from before was completely forgotten. Helena even managed to fail to remember her desire to explain the events of the fight in her classroom earlier. Sitting down in their plush seats before the fire, all attention was completely transfixed on Harry--and for once, he didn’t seem to mind it.

For a moment he just sat there, grinning almost drunkenly, glancing from them to the fire, almost as if he were trying to form the right words but was failing to cough them up. 

“Well?” Neville urged him on, impatient. “What is it, Harry?”

“I--oh--well, best to spit it out then--” Harry stuttered, still looking lost for any sort of vocabulary. There was a twinkle in his eyes as he looked at them. “Ginny’s pregnant.”

Immediately, Helena’s mouth dropped. “You’re serious?”

“Does it look like I’m joking?” Harry giggled. “Of course I’m serious. She’s two months along already, and only just decided to tell me.”

“Two months?!” Neville’s eyes bulged. “Why on earth did she wait so long to tell you?”

“Oh, well, she said--she said she didn’t want to worry me while I settled into my new job, because she knew I’d want to come back straightaway. She wanted to let me know that everything was fine and she’s past the biggest risk stage, so I sent her a letter back saying that I’d stay away, so long as she sent lots of pictures.”

“Yes, lots of them!” Helena nodded vigorously. “Oh, Harry, I’m so happy for you.”

“Yeah, mate,” Neville jumped in. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Harry gushed. “I’m hoping it’s a boy.”

“Oh, could you imagine,” Helena smiled, and she pictured Ginny Potter back at home, in a quaint little cottage, a baby bump just barely visible beneath her shirt as she scribbled out a hasty letter, finally sharing the splendid news to her beloved husband. It was hard to believe that the two of them had been in the same year, Helena thought then, as Ginny’s life was so much different than hers by this point.

“What’re you thinking about?” Neville asked then, and it took Helena a moment to realize that he was talking to her. 

“I’m sorry?”

“You just seemed very intent on those flames, is all.”

“Oh. Nothing, really. I suppose I just got lost in them. They are quite mesmerizing.”

“Hm.” Neville propped his head against his fingertips and nodded, as though unconvinced that he was being told the truth. Helena didn’t budge from her fire story--she didn’t feel like explaining anything right now. In fact, the silence around them was quite welcome to her. Harry looked between the two of them with an amused expression before turning back to the fire himself.

“What would you want to name the baby?” Neville asked Harry after some time. Harry smiled, still looking drunk with his emotions running so high.

“I dunno.” He continued to stare into the fire. “Probably something like. . . like Lily, if it’s a girl, or Arthur, if it’s a boy.”

“Arthur?” Helena asked. “Is that another namesake, like Lily, or do you just like the ring of it?”

“It’d be after Mr. Weasley,” Harry confessed. “Mrs. Weasley deserves a namesake too, if I’m being honest, but not before my own mother. Of course, this is all theoretical--I’ll have to take Ginny’s ideas into account, too.”

Helena reached over and placed her hand on Harry’s forearm, giving it a squeeze. “Whatever it turns out to be, it’ll be wonderful, I’m sure.” She said this with her entire chest, not just referring to the future name of the child. He seemed to understand this, giving her a shy grin.

“Thanks, Helena.” Then, before a silence could invade once more, he changed the subject. “So, I hear there was a fight today in your classroom?” He raised his eyebrows, clearly entertained by this thought. Helena nodded.

“Those rumors would indeed be correct,” she said, and now she launched into a fully detailed explanation, just like she did for Neville. Neville still listened attentively, though, which pleasantly surprised Helena--it was almost fun to be the center of attention for once.

When she rounded off the recounting of her afternoon, she gave a great sigh, then smiled. “But, despite all that, I’d still say it was a good day. I mean, you did spring such spectacular news onto us, after all.”

Harry smiled, but shortly after, he bumped his chest up in a scoff. “Hard pill to swallow knowing that there are still people out there with that sort of mentality. Especially so soon after. . .” He trailed off, but Helena knew. She immediately softened her gaze, her voice.

“I know.”

“But Harry, of course you realize there will always be people like Helena out there?” Neville was quick to point out in an attempt to lift Harry’s spirits.

“And you two, of course,” Helena piggybacked. “You each are some of the bravest I’ve ever seen. You bring a grace to Gryffindor’s name.”

If it weren’t for the interference of the firelight, Helena was sure that she might have been able to clearly make out the way scarlet had lit up on both Harry and Neville’s faces. She chose not to make a comment as they each gushed out a thanks.

“Now,” Helena said promptly then, smoothing her robes and getting to her feet, “if you boys don’t mind, I think I’ll head off to my chambers.” She gave a yawn--sleepiness had begun creeping up on her and would soon threaten to overtake her near the heat of the crackling fire. 

“Sleep well then,” Neville bid her.

“Yeah, what he said,” Harry acknowledged.

Helena placed her hand on Harry’s shoulder in a friendly, comforting gesture. “Say a congratulations to Ginny for me, won’t you?”

Harry beamed. “Of course.”

Off she swept, creeping out the Room of Requirement’s door and making her way down to the dungeons, where a frigid air took her over. Perhaps it did not bother her so much anymore that her classroom, chambers, and office were located down there, but on nights such as this it was just a bit more unbearable--especially with winter slowly edging its way across the grounds of Hogwarts with each passing day. It had occurred to her more than once that she should take the liberty to speak with McGonagall about the possibility of a relocation--she knew for a fact that there was an empty classroom near the third floor corridor--but there was the issue that she figured McGonagall had enough on her plate already, and no time to deal with a professor’s qualms about being in the dungeons.

Even so, just before bed, Helena began the scrawlings of ideas in which she might say to McGonagall over the matter, just in case McGonagall’s tasks at hand cleared up, and just in case she decided to grow a backbone.

The following morning, it was difficult to slide out from beneath the warm covers of her bed, but she was thankful for it once she reached the Great Hall--the ceiling was nothing but a beautiful expanse of blue, dotted by puffy white clouds and a bright sun. Birds swooped and dove overhead, and it was almost like being outdoors on such a wonderful looking day. 

Harry and Neville were not at breakfast yet, and so Helena sat on her own, enjoying the low murmur the students were keeping their conversations at, soaking it all in. She ate up some eggs (sunny-side up), and potatoes (boiled), and toast (thoroughly slathered in jam). Harry and Neville had still not arrived by the time all the owls swooped in to drop off mail.

If the boys had been there, it would have been a momentous occasion--what happened next surely took Helena by surprise. As she had looked up to watch the owls, she had to do a double take as one flew over her and dropped a letter in her lap. It was a simple envelope, almost crisp white, wrapped with twine for extra garnish. 

_ Who could have possibly--? _

Helena was almost hesitant to turn it over and view the return address. Was the owl certain that this had been meant for her, or had it made a mistake? She had no friends outside of Hogwarts, none that she had spoken to in years, anyway. And no family, either. . . No aunts, uncles, nor cousins. . .

Paranoia began to set in. Could it be those gits from Slug and Jigger’s, sending a hateful letter upon her getting the position?  _ But no,  _ she quickly shook this thought away,  _ they would have done that in September if that were the case. _

And so, realizing that she could sit and ponder it forever, Helena wiped her thoughts clean and flipped the envelope over, only to let out a gasp of surprise as a wide smile overtook her face.

_ For Helena Borington _

_ Of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry _

_ From your dearest friend _

_ Luna Lovegood _

_ Luna Lovegood.  _ Now this was a name Helena hadn’t put a face to in ages, considering that Luna had taken to traveling the world soon after leaving Hogwarts. Still, it was touching to absorb that Luna had regarded herself as Helena’s “dearest friend”--Helena had figured Luna had likely long forgotten about her. Then again, she didn’t figure anybody or any creature was forgettable to Luna Lovegood. . . 

Heart already aglow, Helena hastily tore the envelope open to the letter inside, written upon heavy parchment like all other things there in the wizarding world. It was unfolded in a heartbeat.

_ “Dearest friend,” _ Luna had written.  _ “I’ve heard that you have taken up a position at Hogwarts as the potions professor. You must be very proud! I certainly am of you. I felt the need to send this letter to let you know and share your assumed excitement with you, since I know you have been on your own all this time.”  _

Helena smiled at this sentiment and continued reading on. 

_ “Apologies for it being so late. I’ve been quite busy--Rolf and I have opened up a magical creatures sanctuary in the name of his grandfather, and we’ve had such an excitable time with it recently.  _

_ “If you need anything at all, we will certainly attempt to be there for you. It has been so long, but so goes the story of growing up. _

_ “Hope to hear from you soon. Congratulations once again! _

_ “And say hello to Harry and Neville for me, will you? It had been quite some time since I last spoke to them. I am planning on sending Harry a letter as well, so I hope he does not fret over you getting yours first.” _

With a sigh of gratefulness, Helena reread the letter for good measure, then reclosed it back in the envelope. A glance at her watch revealed she might just have enough time to begin on her response before her first class of the day, and so without a second thought to the fact that Harry and Neville never did show up to eat with her, she pushed away from the table and hurried off to her classroom.

Luna Lovegood had been one of Helena’s considerably closer friends during her time at Hogwarts. Though one year apart, they had become acquainted through Dumbledore’s Army, and afterward, had formed a bond. Luna was incredibly smart, yet so aloof and carefree--her sense of tranquil and calmness had reminded Helena, during a time in which she felt an immense amount of pressure, that one could balance academics and self care. When she was upset, Luna calmed her by offering to do her favorite things with her--take a stroll by the lake, or curl up together in the library, or even sneak sweets from the kitchen (heartily offered by the poor house elves at the time). In turn, Helena had taken to being mindful of Luna’s own moods, as she never betrayed her calm demeanor with anger or sadness. 

But after taking the time to be observant, Helena could tell. When Luna was upset, she would twitch her nose while speaking. When she was sad, she would tuck one side of her hair behind her ear. And then, sometimes, when things were worse, she’d simply gaze at the floor, her beautiful blue eyes lingering on the smallest specks of dirt.

So Helena would begin to notice these things, and she would do her best to take Luna’s hand and bring her to the Hufflepuff dormitories, where she would pull out her stash of nail polish from her trunk and tell the girl to pick a color. Luna’s spirits always rose after her fingernails were decorated by a good splash of periwinkle, or sky blue, or yellow, and it always warmed Helena’s own heart to know that she was capable of caring like that for somebody. Sometimes, she would feel so isolated by her schoolwork, so entangled in her own mind with obsession over grades. Luna became earth. She was the sky. They met at the horizon.

Now, that began to feel so far in the distance of Helena’s radar. In all her excitement over the letter, there was a hint of sadness, deep beneath the overtones. Had she blinked and watched it dissipate away in the length of a heartbeat? 

Eventually, she was landed at her desk, a piece of parchment pulled from her drawer and quill dipped into ink, ready to churn out a response if her hand would do so well as to keep up with her mind. _“Luna,”_ Helena wrote quickly, her handwriting adapting a messy version of itself in all its anticipation. _“It was such a sweet surprise to have heard from you. I miss you a great deal and hope you are doing absolutely perfect in your quest to explore the world and host your sanctuary for all magical creatures with Rolf. How have your studies come along? Have you been able to prove the existence of nargles yet? I am anxiously awaiting to know._ _  
__“Neville and Harry are doing swell. To be honest, I hadn’t known Harry would be teaching here, and only found out the first night the students were here. Same goes for Neville--it hadn’t occurred to me that anybody I might have known would have stayed here at the school. I am very grateful for them being here, as it might have become quite lonely without their company.”_

She was about to continue on, reminiscent, but at that moment the bell finally cut her off. With a sigh, she lowered the quill, rose to her feet, and clasped her hands before her, waiting just as she always did for her first years to arrive and take their seats. Today felt a little more hopeful as they waltzed into the room, smiles on their faces and conversations going on amongst them. 

They quieted, though, as they settled into their seats, pulled out their textbooks, and turned their bright faces up at her. She smiled.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

There was a murmur of agreement that rolled over their tiny heads up at her. She scrunched up her nose playfully.

“I thought so too. Though we can’t really enjoy it from down here, can we?”

Many heads shook from side to side.  _ Nope. _

“It’s a bit too chilly to be going outside, but I’ve got an idea. If you’ll all gather your things. . . yes, that’s it. . .”

Moments later, on a whim, Helena was leading her students up the stone stairs and into the Great Hall, which was deserted in the wake of classes starting. The house tables had been put away, but this was no problem--with the wave of her wand, a single long wooden table and bench was whisked out into the middle of the floor. Another flick and a segment of the professors’ table was brought out before it, for Helena to use. She positioned herself behind it and motioned for the kids to take a seat. They obeyed, hurrying to nab a spot beside their friends at the big table.

“You won’t need your books,” she said as she spotted a few starting to pull them back out. “Today will be. . . fairly easy.”

Eyebrows knitted together. She elaborated.

“We’re going to take a break from all the brewing, stewing, and mixing. I wouldn’t call this a quiz, but rather, a little game, what we’re about to do.”

Some still looked confused. Others let their shoulders sag at the word “quiz.”

“All I ask is that today, you all take the time and, from memory, record as many ingredients relevant to the potion-making you have learned so far. Soak in the sunlight and clear sky while doing so.”

As they began to pull out their parchment, she added, “Oh, and whoever has got the most ingredients listed by the end of class will have a special treat from Honeydukes. I’ll purchase it on the next Hogsmeade trip.”

She tried not to allow her face to betray this white lie--it would not be just one student, but the entire class that would be indulging in treats, but a little competition always helped when it came to motivation.

Once quills had started to scribble away, Helena allowed herself to relax and think of Luna’s letter. She wondered if perhaps she might pay a visit to her sometime soon--Helena certainly wouldn’t be opposed to the idea. . .

Deeper she sank into nostalgia. The time when Luna had spent hours with her, teaching her how to tie a tie. The first night Helena had comforted Luna by painting her nails (to which Luna had memorably commented, “Muggles have such interesting ways to keep things original”). 

When Luna had run off to the Ministry with Harry and came back to school with a bloody lip.

When Luna had disappeared without a word to her.

Helena snapped up a bit at this thought, realizing she was slightly dozing in the sunlight. She shook her head and had to remind herself where she was.

Hadn’t Neville and Luna dated briefly? She could not remember clearly. . . But it seemed as if there had been some rumors about him so valiantly confessing his love for her mid-battle. . . 

She wondered what that might have been like, to be there in the fray and have this bright-eyed boy proclaim himself to you amongst such chaos. A moment Luna surely would have appreciated, in all her gentleness. In the light of an unassuming tomorrow, Neville had really. . . well. . .  _ grown a pair. _

The bell for the changeover snapped her from her thoughts this time, as she broke from her daze and realized her students were bidding her goodbye and laying their parchment on her desk. She waved to them, saying goodbye to those who said it, and watched as they filed away toward their next class.

Helena stood, picked up the pile of parchment, and returned the tables to where they belonged; it was now time to return to her usual classroom, for the rest of her classes would need to use the equipment at their desks. She sent one last look up at the wondrous sky before hurrying away.

When she arrived at her classroom, there was already a good amount of students inside, waiting patiently for her. She smiled at those who swiveled their heads to get a look at her before she traipsed over to her desk and took a seat to wait on the rest.

“Professor Borington,” one piped up from the second row, “Professor Longbottom came by just moments ago. Put something on your desk and told us to remind you of it since he couldn’t find you.”

Furrowing her brow, Helena looked down; sure enough, there was a folded note laying atop the beginnings of her letter to Luna. She picked it up, unfolded it, and scanned the contents.

_ Lunch. Greenhouse three. It’s important. _

That was all it read. 

What could possibly be important enough to take away from their school day, she wondered? Her mind lingered back to the beast at Halloween, and a shiver rolled up her spine. . . She didn’t feel she was ready to handle that sort of stress, not yet. She refolded the note and set it aside, the words burned into her brain by curiosity and. . . perhaps even anxiety?

When she looked up, she saw that a number of eyes were on her. 

“What?” She asked after clearing her throat.

“Well, are you going to tell us what it’s about?” The same student asked. 

At this, Helena could not fight the urge to laugh, the act of it completely driving her doubts to the back of her mind. “Absolutely not. Now, open your books to page four-twelve. We’ll be talking about memory potions today.”


	13. Happee Birthdae Helena

Lunchtime crept along quicker than expected, and it was very soon that Helena found herself descending the front steps of Hogwarts, down on her way to greenhouse three. Upon her arrival, the door remained shut--Neville was nowhere to be seen. She rapped against the wood thrice times, waiting for a response patiently.

“J-just a second!” Neville’s voice came then, and it sounded as if he were murmuring to somebody before the sound of something crashing to the ground interrupted. Here Helena could hear him audibly scrambling now, a picture in her head of him hurrying to pick up whatever mess he had just made whilst simultaneously heading for the door. She stifled a laugh.

Moments later, the knob began to jiggle, and then the door swung open to reveal the messy looking professor, his hair sticking out at different angles and dirt smeared in random places on his face. “Hello there,” he greeted, trying to be charming despite being visibly out of breath. 

Helena allowed herself to giggle now. “You’ve got a little something. . .” She reached a hand up to brush her thumb against the bridge of his nose, where there was a particularly prominent mark from soil. 

Neville seemed embarrassed, but not so much that he shied away. “Oh! It was--the hibiscus--it fell and I just--”

“Got it,” Helena cut off his rambling with a smile, taking her hand back as the area was now clean. She peered around his shoulder. “Now. What on earth could you need me for that’s so important?”

“Right-- _ that-- _ here, come in.”

He seemed jittery, but not in a bad way--more like he was simply teeming with an unbearable amount of excitement. Helena liked seeing him this way. All of her anxiety from earlier was completely dissipated--this couldn’t possibly be about the beast from the Forbidden Forest, not with him acting like this. 

She was barely three steps in the door when Neville hollered, taking her by surprise. “C’mon out, Harry!”

Then she realized that there was something different going on here. There were some streamers cast over the plants; three balloons were tied down together in one corner of the greenhouse; the air smelled of sweets. . .

“Happy birthday, Helena!” Harry’s voice came as he revealed himself; he had been hiding behind one of Neville’s two supplies cabinets. 

“Happy. . . oh, dear. What’s that look on your face?” Neville had turned to her then, at the wrong time; Helena’s mouth had dropped in shock. Here she had forgotten  _ her own birthday _ , and here both of her closest friends were offering her a small celebration, and she had  _ no idea _ how to respond.

So instead, her eyes began to well up with tears. Spectacular, unexpected tears.

“Oh--Harry--she’s going to cry, I think--why are you upset? Are you alright? Maybe we shouldn’t have done this whole surprise thing--Gran has a hatred for them too--”

_ “THISISTHESWEETESTTHINGANYBODYHASEVERDONEFORMEEEEEE.”  _ She hadn’t meant to wail, but for some reason the words came out that way; she threw her arms around Neville, who froze in confusion for a moment. Now here Harry lingered close, and, blindly, Helena reached out for him, barely grasping the fabric of his flannel before pulling him into the hug. At first, he and Neville did not know how to respond, all squished together like that, but eventually relaxed and hugged her back.

When she finally stepped back out of the hug, there was no hiding some of the tears--happy--on her cheeks. Both Neville and Harry smiled at her.

“I have to be honest, I forgot--but how did  _ you _ know?” She admitted to them.

Neville held up a folded piece of parchment. “This. Snatched it from McGonagall’s desk just to remember. Don’t worry, I’ll give it back to her.”

“Is that. . . is that my  résumé ?” 

Neville winked.

Helena crossed her arms over her chest playfully. “You rebellious scoundrel.”

He pretended to look wounded. “You hear that, Harry? I’m a  _ scoundrel _ .”

Harry laughed. “Then that makes two of us.  _ I’m _ the one who distracted McGonagall so he could nick it.”

Helena raised her eyebrows. “And when was this, exactly? How often are you in her office together?”

The two boys shrugged. “It was at the beginning of the year, when she was checking up on us professors more often.”

The prospect of the two of them going out of their way just for her warmed Helena’s heart; however, this thought was interrupted abruptly by a realization.

“You haven’t read that, have you?”

Neville nodded slyly. “Only a little.”

_ “Only a little?” _

Harry shared a devious look with her. “Perhaps. . . perhaps we’ve read the whole thing.”

“You two--”

“What’s the matter with it? It’s not like it’s  _ private.  _ McGonagall’s read it, after all.”

“Yes, but I deliberately  _ meant  _ for Professor McGonagall to read it--she’s my employer. I never expected for some rogue charming Gryffindor professors to--”

_ “Dearest Headmistress McGonagall: I am writing you in regards to the open Potions Master position at Hogwarts _ ,” Neville began to recite in a playful voice.

In one quick movement, Helena snatched the parchment away from him. “That’s enough.” She still couldn’t wipe the smile off of her face, though.

Neville returned it. “As you wish.” He shared a look with Harry. “You think we’re charming?”

She changed the subject now. “It smells spectacular in here. Do you have a candle going?”

“Oh--no,” Harry responded. “No, we have a little--well, this is the reason we wanted to surprise you at lunch instead of wait until after classes, and give your day a little more pep--we’ve got a cake.”

“Chocolate,” Neville said simply, and he moved toward the cabinet Harry had been hiding behind just minutes before. Out he pulled a round cake with pink icing, and a green lettering Helena couldn’t make out from her spot, though she could make a good guess as to what it said.

“We had Heartless Harold make it, and then we got to do the finishing touches,” Harry beamed as Neville sat the cake down on a cleared off area on a worktable. The lettering could be read clearly now:  _ Happy birthday, Hels!  _ “Oh, and the Fat Friar wanted in on it, so we let him draw the smiley face at the bottom.”

Helena felt a blush on her cheeks. “Boys. . .”

“No need to go into theatricals to thank us, now,” Neville dismissed her. “You know we only really did it for the cake.” He winked again.

Helena resolved to a smile. “Thank you.”

Harry nudged Neville in the arm playfully. “You gonna get a knife and start cutting the cake, mate? We don’t have all day, you know. It was  _ you  _ who wanted to put this on a deadline, after all.”

“And for good reason, if  _ you’ll  _ be so kind to remember,” Neville seemed to remind Harry before producing a large cutting knife moments later (Helena could not tell if he had had it stowed away in the pocket of his tweed coat, or beneath the work table) and sliced three pieces out of the cake, separating them onto small wooden plates and passing two over to her and Harry. He picked up his own then, and held it up in a toast.

“What reason?” Helena asked curiously.

“Oh, nothing--” Neville stuttered out, avoiding eye contact with her. “Just busy after school today, that’s all.” Before Helena had a chance to pry furthermore, he cheered now, “To twenty-five!”

“To twenty-five!” Helena and Harry repeated, and they knocked their plates together before each stabbing their forks into the sugary goodness.

“Oh, this is delicious. I’ll have to send Heartless Harold a thank you note,” Helena raved after the first bite, taken aback by just how good it was--it was different than what the house elves used to serve to students celebrating their birthdays at evening dinner, but it was a good different.

“Don’t give Heartless Harold all the credit, now--remember: We did the icing,” Harry reminded her, and Helena laughed.

“Oh, right--remind me to send you both thank you notes, too.”

Neville, however, waved her off. “Maybe this pompous git needs one, but I don’t--seeing the expression on your face coming in here was a thank you note enough for me.”

Helena blushed again, embarrassed to remember the joyous tears she’d shed. “Well, not many people remembered my birthday when we were in school. Only Luna, and the people she cared to mention it to.”

“How come you never mentioned it to anybody?”

Helena shrugged. “It was never that important.”

“Everybody should feel like their birthday is important.”

“Well, obviously I’ve never. I didn’t even remember it this year. To me it’s. . . just another Tuesday.”

Neville tipped his plate to her. “Well, then. Here’s to just another Tuesday. And may there be many as splendid after.”

*******

Some hours had passed since the eventful lunchtime now, and classes had come and gone. Helena sat in the thick silence of her classroom, focusing hard on the parchment before her; she was determined to finish her letter to Luna by the end of the day.

A scratching noise emitted from and danced with the tip of her quill, the only disruption as Helena wrote:  _ “I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but grandfather’s passed away. . .”  _ On she scribbled, doing her best to detail the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts without having to rehash painful memories--it was not exactly the sort of event one would want to speak of casually, yet also not the sort of thing to skim over. She did her best to bring justice to it. 

And then on she continued,  _ “The first few months here have been splendid. Professor McGonagall has been incredibly kind in her help to get me settled, as well as Harry and Neville. I’m quite thankful for them. . .” _

For a split second, she paused, quill hovering over the parchment; Luna might just be a decent resource to turn to about what happened in the Forbidden Forest. . . She had an efficient knowledge of magical creatures and might just know what they saw. . . 

But Helena shook her head. She could not possibly ask that of somebody within their first correspondence in years. She segued, instead, into a farewell.

_ “It really did make my entire day to hear from you. Please, write back! I would love to keep in touch from here on out; I’ve missed you dearly. Take care, Luna. Much love, from Helena.” _

Helena finished the last word with some flourish, energy rising as she slid the letter into an envelope and sealed it with a drop of wax, scrawling the name  _ Luna Lovegood  _ on the front with a sort of satisfaction. She stuffed the envelope into her robes, rising so fast from her desk chair that the wood made a rather unbearable sound as it scraped against stone. She ignored this, however, as she hurried from the room.

Not only was it excitable to actually be corresponding with somebody outside of Hogwarts, but it was also a great excuse to finally go and see her owl, Philo, for something other than feeding him treats (not that she figured he minded it so much as her). Up and up she hurried, vaguely thinking about how big Hogwarts really was, as the trip from her dungeons to the owlery took at least five or six minutes to complete. 

She was nearly breathless by the time she made it all the way up there, which was no help to her as she opened the door to outside only to find that it was bitterly cold. Wrapping her robes closer to her now, she began to regret her heading off so quickly that she forgot a coat or even a scarf. The wind whipping around her was absolutely no help to the matter either.

“Philo!” She hollered once she was in the dome-like structure, only slightly relieved of the frozen gusts sweeping through. “Philo! Here, boy!”

There was a hoot from above, and then down he floated--the cheery little tawny, his round eyes sparkling in hopes for a treat. He landed on a post and cocked his head quizzically at her.

“I’ll have one for you when you get back,” she assured him. “Right now, I’ve got a little task for you.” 

Out she slipped the envelope, and immediately Philo ruffled his feathers in a shared excitement--hardly did he ever get to deliver something for her. She smiled at his enthusiasm and held out the envelope for him to grasp in his feet; he took it with grace.

“Stay safe, alright! I promise you a treat.” She patted him on the head, and he nuzzled her back before spreading his large wings, ready to take flight. Out of respect, Helena stepped back to give him the room to take off.

And then he was up in the air, taking to the sky and gliding smoothly away over the wind, disappearing into the distance already. Helena watched after him until he became but a speck in the horizon; she missed his presence already.

Finally, she made her way back inside, where a surprising amount of warmth washed over her; perhaps a few fires had been stoked, bringing heat to the otherwise drafty hallways. Or, she merely thought they were warm because they were devoid of the constant breeze she had been enduring outside. 

Now, here, her stomach began to grumble--she was thankful to turn the corner of the corridor and be greeted by the scent of supper wafting up from the Great Hall. Down the stairs she hurried, the cape of her robes sweeping along with her steps, much like a graceful set of wings.

When she arrived at the Great Hall, it was no surprise to find it already filled to the brim with chatting students, and most of the professors, who were already seated up at the High Table.

“And where’ve you been?” Neville asked when she sat down at her seat finally. She smoothed the wrinkles of her robes on her lap. 

“Just ran a letter to the owlery. Luna Lovegood wrote me.”

At this, Harry’s jaw dropped and his mouth curved into a smile. “Luna Lovegood?” He asked, enthusiastic. “And how is she?”

“Great as ever,” Helena gushed. “She and Rolf have started a sanctuary, apparently!”

“That’s spectacular! Say, think she’ll write to me, too?”

“She did say to keep your eye on the sky,” Helena smiled. 

“Hear that Neville? Luna Loveg--”

But Harry was cut off by a sudden collective gasp around the room; immediately, all three of their attention was diverted to the source, which roused a few different reactions from each of them. Helena put her hand over her mouth. Harry and Neville’s eyes both widened.

Griffin Pritchard was standing up on a table, attempting to garner everybody’s attention; once the Great Hall was quiet, he looked smug. 

“Thank you all,” he said graciously, turning on his heel to get a good look at everybody before stopping to face toward the Ravenclaw table. “I’ve just got a little surprise, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“What is he doing?” Neville murmured.

“Should we be stopping him?” Helena whispered back.

“Wait,” Harry said.

“DANE HERACLES!” Griffin boomed.

“Oh, no.” Helena’s voice had shrunk to being indiscernible from a breath. All of the students’ heads turned toward Dane, who was sat, frozen, at the Ravenclaw table. Her cheeks burned a blazing pink.

“DANE, THERE’S SOMETHING YOU SHOULD KNOW.”

“Well, this is very. . . valiant,” Neville commented. 

“More like idiotic.”

“I HAVE LIKED YOU SINCE THE VERY DAY I MET YOU, DANE,” Griffin went on. “AND I KNOW THAT YOU KNOW IT. SO, I JUST WANT TO KNOW--WILL YOU GO OUT WITH ME?”

Helena didn’t know whether to cringe or be impressed. Her eyes flicked back over to Dane, who looked petrified.

“YOU DON’T HAVE TO ANSWER NOW. I CAN WAIT.” Griffin began to climb down off the table. “THAT’S ALL.”

A silence hung over the Great Hall as everybody processed what this daredevil had just done. Eventually, one of his friends clapped him on the back, letting out a joyous cry: “TO MY GUY PRITCHARD!” And then, the whole Gryffindor table was hooting and hollering. The other houses continued to stare at them in disbelief.

“Isn’t that your house?” Helena finally asked Harry and Neville once talk and laughter resumed. She wore a smug look.

“Hey, now, the motto doesn’t include having a strong suit in romance,” Harry quipped.

“I would say our guy Griffin did a fine job in wooing the girl,” Neville said as he nodded over to Dane, who Helena turned to see her being grilled by her fellow Ravenclaws as she blushed and slid intermittent looks at Griffin.

“I’ll bet Nicolas would be responsible for the encouragement of that whole presentation,” Helena commented absentmindedly. At that moment, she caught sight of Professor McGonagall, who was hurrying down the rows of the tables, straight for Griffin. She watched on as McGonagall paused and, with a tight face, began to speak with him over the tops of his classmates’ heads. The conversation was not audible from where Helena was sitting, but she could figure exactly what it might be about. 

At this moment, there was a nudging against her ribs, and she turned to see that Harry had left--Neville had slid into his seat and was vying for her attention now. 

“What?” She laughed, the gesture slightly ticklish. “Where’d Harry go?”

“He had to go. . . tend to some things. But I had to catch you before you turned in for the night--I have one last little surprise for you.”

“Nev, c’mon, you don’t have to--”

“It’s already in motion, Helena. Finish your food, why don’t you? And then we’ll go.”

“Okay. . .” Helena couldn’t help but allow a shy grin to overtake her. She began to take small bites from what remained on her plate. “Any hints?”

Neville dragged his thumb and index finger over his lips, imitating turning a key and throwing it away at the end of it. “You’ll just have to see for yourself.”

“Fine then.” Helena got to her feet, and held out her hand. “I’m full anyway. Just lead the way.”

He took her hand, palm warm and strong against hers. “As you command. This way, now.”

And in that moment, for the first time in years, Helena actually felt excited for it to be her birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is in need of major revision. I'm still sticking to writing the story all the way through, though, and writer's block REALLY got the best of me here. Hope you all enjoyed anyway and I PROMISE next week's is going to be better! It's gonna be so fluffy and sweet, it'll make your teeth rot. :)


	14. A Waltz to Remember

Helena found herself practically racing down the corridor with Neville--she had to jog to keep up with him as he tugged her along. “Where are we going?” She laughed as they whipped around a corner, soaking up his anticipation as much as she could.

“Just up here now—” He led on, turning them at a corner and coming up to a wider hallway. Helena realized where they were going now; the Room of Requirement was just a few paces away. 

Were they really only going to their meeting room? She wondered.

They stopped before the wall and Neville finally broke his grasp of her hand, starting to pace as was customary for the Room’s appearance.

“Neville,” Helena eyed the wall and started cautiously, “what’re you thinking?” She was trying to be patient, but could not help to be jittery.

The edges of the door began to appear just slightly now, breaking apart the wall as was so familiar for it to do. Neville paced in front of it one last time before it revealed itself entirely, in all its usual grandness. “You ready?” He clasped her hands again, smiling devilishly, and Helena simply could not say “no.” Instead, she gave a speechless nod, words getting stuck in her throat already; what could he possibly have planned to make  _ him _ this giddy?

The door creaked open now as Neville pushed it in, one hand still resting in Helena’s, pulling her along slowly. On the other side, Helena could just glimpse a blue glimmering, something beautiful, like diamonds. 

Upon their entry, she came to realize that she was not far off from the guess of diamonds. Taking in the glittering space around her, she was rendered completely speechless, as one hand swept up to her throat, the other pulling away from Neville’s to lay over her heart. Her eyes wandered from one corner to the next, in utter disbelief and a swoop of emotions. She simply could not bring herself to believe that this had been done for  _ her _ .

She was unsure of how Neville could have achieved it; he must have wanted this for her badly, she thought dazedly. Stretched before her was the Great Hall; though it wasn’t  _ really  _ the Great Hall. Rather, it was the Great Hall in the sense of how it had looked for the Yule Ball all those years ago—lavishly decorated and completely glammed up, like a snowy, frozen wonderland. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling like ice. Enchanted snow fell only so far from the ceiling before dissipating like magic just over their heads. The bewitched ceiling itself twinkled with wintry stars, and the floor was nothing but a powdered whiteness. There were even tables blanketed by crisp white cloths, garnished by lavish bouquets of silk flowers and delicate candles.

“Neville—” Helena gasped, and turned to him, only to find that he had already been looking at her, his soft eyes watching her entire reaction. 

“You like it then?” He asked, though her response could be easily guessed.

“Like it?” Helena mused. “I’m in love.” 

Neville stuck his hands in his pockets and scuffed the toe of his shoe against the floor, looking down abashedly. “That day we were in the greenhouse and you told me about the Yule Ball thing. . . Crabbe was an  _ idiot,  _ obviously--he truly could not have done better for himself with you--but your story gave me this idea. It’s not perfect, but. . .”

“But it is perfect.” Helena gazed around in awe once more. “It is so, so thoughtful, Nev.” It was safe to say that her heart was completely full. In fact, it was overflowing with emotions, all positive.

A red bit of blush had crept up the back of Neville’s neck--he tried to rub it away before Helena could see. She finally looked back to him with a sly smile on her face.

“Forget Crabbe--he couldn’t have possibly had the thought to do this for me, not ever. Not even somebody else, for that matter.” She hurried over to Neville and enveloped him in the biggest hug she could muster. He tensed, then relaxed and returned it. When she pulled away, she grinned at him. “Now, were you only planning to  _ show _ this to me, or are we going to dance, too?” 

“Dance?”

“Come on now, Nev, you didn’t conjure all of this up without some sort of expectation that I would want to treat it exactly like the Yule Ball?”

The blank look on Neville’s face made her laugh. 

“Alright, all we need is some music. . .” Helena focused her thoughts now, on a record player and some vinyls to go with it. 

And lo and behold, moments later, a record player shimmered into view just beyond her view of Neville, a shelf of vinyls appearing below it. Helena smiled, patting Neville on the shoulder.

“There we are.”

She strode over to it and sifted through the vinyls. Most of them were bands she didn’t recognize. Until. . .

She gasped. “It can’t be,” she mused quietly, pulling it out of its spot among the others. It had a blank cover, white, with only a short bit of handwriting done in sharpie down in the right-hand corner. Though it was faded and somewhat smeared, Helena could still make it out: “Angus & Helena’s Tunes.”

She couldn’t explain how the Room of Requirement could have produced this; she had long forgotten about this piece of memory, the pain of the real copy still up in her attic back home. Surprisingly, she was not sad; more nostalgic, and even glad that it was here right now.

“What’s that?” Neville inquired from behind her. For a moment, she had forgotten he was there, caught up in gazing at the keepsake.

“Oh. . . Just. . . You’ll see,” she responded vaguely, sliding the vinyl out of the cover and lowering it onto the platform. It began to spin; she lifted the needle and contemplated where to place it. With some satisfaction, she lowered it back down to the track she remembered best, and for a moment there was only the sound of crackling before. . .

_ “I can dim the lights / And sing you songs / Full of bad things. . .” _

“What is this?” 

Helena turned to see Neville’s mouth quirked in a half-smile as he listened closely to the soft beginning of the song. Helena shrugged casually.

“No matter to you. Here, come with me.”

_ “I can serenade / And gently play on your heart strings. . .” _

Helena stepped back toward Neville--it was her turn to lead, now--taking his two hands in hers and pulling him along with her to the center of the room. He let her, all hesitance forgot. He chuckled when he stumbled a bit on the way. 

_ “Oh love / Oh loverboy / What’re you doing tonight? / Hey, boy. . .” _

“Set my alarm, turn on my charm; that’s because I’m a good old-fashioned loverboy,” Helena sang along as she lifted Neville’s hands over his head and twirled him; he was all smiles as he came back around and tugged her to do the same. 

_ “I’d like for you and I / To go romancing. . .” _

“You know,” Neville said, breathless, as they continued to play off one another--Neville now pushed one of her arms back and pulled the other forward in a casual movement--“I actually taught myself how to dance for the Yule Ball.”

“You did, now?” Helena pictured a young Neville, gawky and awkward, learning how to woo a girl with his moves in the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory. He spun her again.

“Yep. Sort of, anyway. Gran sent me. . . You know. . .” He blew a loose tuft of hair away from his forehead, “One of those pamphlets. I think it was a Muggle-made one, to be honest. Ginny Weasley was my date that night. Not to brag or anything, but I think we killed it.” 

_ “When I’m not with you / Think of you always. . .” _

“And do I have what it takes to compete with the likes of Ginny Weasley’s dance moves?” Helena teased. She let go of his right hand, unraveling all her tension as she did a three step turn. Then, as quickly as she had spun out, he brought her back in, rejoining the two of their palms. Both began to giggle.

“Oh, absolutely,” Neville laughed as she took her hands away from his for a moment and curtsied jokingly. Neville bowed back to her and held his hand out once more, the other behind his back like a gentleman offering a dance. Helena graciously took it and they resumed their play dancing.

_ “I learned my passion / In the good old-fashioned / School of loverboys. . .” _

In this moment, Helena could think of nothing other than what was right in front of her, something that she would later reflect and realize she had not done in quite some time. There were no thoughts--only the music, and Neville, and the Room, and moving to the music.  _ Put one foot here, the other there; ease the shoulders; hold her chin up high. . . _

Neville seemed to be having fun, too, and she was glad; vaguely, she wondered if he felt as in the moment as she did. As the music began to close out ( _ “Everything’s alright / Just hold on tight / That’s because I’m a good old-fashioned loverboy” _ ) the two of them took a moment to catch their breath. “Think I’m out of shape,” Helena wheezed, smiling so hard it hurt.

“You are quite the dancer,” Neville laughed, and Helena joined in with him; the vinyl started to segue into a new song now, something slow and soft. Helena recognized it immediately.

_ “These arms of mine. . .” _

She rose to her full stature and started her way back toward the record player. “Well, this is nothing to dance to,” she said matter-of-factly, intending to change it.

However, Neville stopped her. “Hels.”

“Hmm?” She hummed as she turned, just slightly, to look at him. He also returned to his full height, previously leaned over to catch his breath.

“Don’t change it. Come over here.”

Perhaps it was from the exercise of the dancing, but Helena’s heart seemed to skip--just once. Neville held out his hand. 

“Come on. You deserve the full Yule Ball experience,” he said. He held out to her.

Shoving aside whatever was keeping her rooted to the spot, she smiled gently and paced back over to him. “Okay,” she agreed, taking the hand he held out for her and placing her other on his shoulder. He took his free palm and placed it on the small of her back, keeping it light and mindful. “I don’t know how to dance,” she admitted, embarrassed. “Not this way, anyway.”

“That’s alright, I can teach you.” 

_ “And if you / Would let them hold you. . .” _

“First, you’re going to step forward when I step back. As if it were all one fluid motion.”

Helena swallowed, nervous, before nodding. “Alright.” 

“Okay. I’ll count the beat. Just step when I say ‘two.’ Ready?” He looked into her eyes. She nodded. “Okay. One, two.”

As he said ‘two,’ Neville stepped back, and Helena stepped forward--except, she used the wrong foot. As her leg collided with Neville’s, they lapsed into some laughter, awkwardly holding onto each other so as to avoid falling over.

“My bad,” Neville said. “I should have told you which foot to use, I suppose. Never did say I was the best instructor.” He guided her back to their starting position, both of them still giggling slightly. Helena was no longer nervous--she realized, with how calm he was, that there was no need to feel that way. After all, it was just  _ Neville.  _ If these past few months meant anything, it would be that they could feel comfortable with one another.

_ “These arms of mine / They are wanting / Wanting to hold you. . .” _

“Let’s try again, shall we?” He said, puffing his chest up just a smidge. “Right, then. I’ll step back with my right foot, and you’ll step forward with your left. Got it?”

Helena nodded. “Got it.”

“Alright. Ready? One”--he paused, then finally--“two.” With fluidity, they moved one step.

“We did it!” Helena cheered. “Only the second try, too! How about that, Longbottom?”

“Positively wonderful, Borington. Now for the other side?”

Helena nodded. 

_ “And if you would let them hold you / Oh, how grateful I will be. . .” _

“One, two.”

Once more, they succeeded in executing the move, Helena growing far too excited about it. 

“Perfect!” Neville boosted her confidence.

“Guess you’re a better instructor than you thought,” Helena beamed.

“Well, we’ll see about that,” Neville laughed. “Let’s try it altogether now.” 

And once they got started, they could not stop. Slowly, adoringly, they danced around the ballroom floor as the song went on.

_ “I need me somebody / Somebody to treat me right / Oh / I need your arms / Loving arms to hold me tight. . .” _

As they went along, Helena couldn’t help but to think about how perfect it all was, and if only she had a gown to wear, and Neville a suit. However, in the same wavelength, she wouldn’t change it for anything, not when he had worked this hard.

“I hope you had a wonderful birthday,” Neville said as they eventually stilled to one spot, now rocking side to side slowly.

“I did. It was more than wonderful, really. You and Harry really made this day special. Shame he couldn’t be here.”

“Well, that’s alright. I know he wishes he could have made it.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve had plenty of fun with you though. This was truly something special.” She looked up into his eyes, and he gazed back at her, the smile that had been on his lips all evening still lingering. “What?” She asked, whenever he didn’t say anything more.

“Nothing, nothing,” he brushed it off, shaking his head incredulously. “I’m just glad you enjoyed today. You deserve to be able to unwind.”

“Calling me uptight?” She quirked her brows playfully.

“What?” Neville said, irony in his voice. “Never.”

“That’s what I thought.” 

Helena allowed her shoulders to fully relax now, and she sighed, leaning forward into Neville’s chest; she pressed the side of her face into him, in a sort of resting state, euphoric from the night's events. A slight laugh rattled Neville’s ribs; it sounded oddly muffled in the ear Helena had against them.

“Everything alright?” He asked, looking down at the top of her head. 

“Kind of tired, to be honest. But a good kind of tired. This was just  _ really _ nice.”

She couldn’t see it, but Neville smiled.

“I’m glad you think so.”

***

Helena could not have been in a more spectacular mood when she woke up the following morning. Though she obviously did not have a window in her chambers down in the dungeons, there was still an overwhelming sense that it was bright and sunny outside; she relished this feeling as she got ready for the day, brushing out her hair and scrubbing her teeth with a newfound energy in the drag of the weeks leading up to Christmas break.

Even as she made her way up the stairs for the Great Hall, there seemed to be an entirely new spring in her step. Both Harry and Neville noticed when she arrived at the High Table for breakfast; Harry seemed simply amused by it.

“What, have you got yourself some Felix Felicis in those dungeons of yours?” He asked jokingly when she’d sat down.

“Felix Felicis?” She asked as she loaded bacon onto her plate.

“You just seem rather excitable today. What’s that all about?”

Helena turned and saw his face finally, which read that he already seemed to know the answer. In fact, it was like he already seemed to know, but also knew something  _ more _ , something she  _ didn’t  _ know.

“Nothing,” she said slowly, trying to study him harder without seeming too intent on it. “Just had a good birthday, is all.” She turned back to her plate, now slightly confused. She pondered asking Harry why he looked so. . .  _ strange.  _ Gloating, even. What was that all about?

She turned in her seat to ask, but was interrupted by a crisp voice. 

“Professor Borington,” Professor McGonagall said, and all three of them looked at her. “Would you be kind enough to come with me for a moment?”

Folding her napkin up out of her lap, Helena stood up quickly, completely forgetting her food and curiosity from moments before. “Of course, Professor,” she responded, and circled around the table, walking away from the boys with McGonagall at her elbow. When they were out in the Entrance Hall, away from everybody else, McGonagall finally spoke.

“Don’t fret, dear, it’s nothing serious,” she said as they moved along, almost as though she could feel the tension Helena felt--she always felt as though she might be in trouble for something she did wrong. “I just needed to speak with you about our next Hogsmeade trip; you’re up on the roster of teachers who will need to be present for monitoring the youth.” They strolled along, Helena having no idea where they were heading, if there was indeed anywhere in particular.

“Oh!” Helena smiled. “I see.”

“The next trip is going to be soon; two weeks from today. Generally the students like to do a bit of shopping for their friends before the Christmas holidays are here. Additionally”--McGonagall turned to Helena with a twinkle in her eye--“the village is a sight to see with all its decorations strung about.” She shook her head now, still smiling something gentle. She seemed to be in a very good mood today. “Apologies, Miss Borington, I’m getting off track. There are some things you and I will need to go over beforehand. Safety protocols, procedure for when you’ve got troublemakers--those sort of things. Would you care to visit me in my office to do so this weekend?”

“Of course, Professor,” Helena nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Wonderful. And then, Miss Borington, there is one other thing I wanted to speak with you about.”

Helena raised her brows. McGonagall’s voice had taken on a rather important tone, though she was still smiling just a tad. She stopped and turned to Helena.

“If you and Mister Longbottom have become more. . .  _ acquainted,  _ that is perfectly fine. However, do please take care to keep it out of the eyes of our student body. If you’ll remember how couples amongst themselves become such a large spectacle, just imagine how it would be to notice a pairing of professors.”

Then, leaving Helena in a stunned silence, McGonagall walked away, the tiniest smile still on her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! Hope you all liked this chapter <3


	15. The Half-Blood Prince

The following Saturday morning dawned cold and clear, and a paper-thin dusting of snow over the grounds gave cause for much excitement for not only the students, but Helena as well. Christmas was well on its way, just a little over two weeks from then, and though she would be spending it at the castle, there was still a great bit of enthusiasm for the festivities, which seemed to be cresting over an imaginary horizon at a much slower pace than she would have liked.

“What do you mean you’re not staying for Christmas!”

Now, this hadn’t come as a surprise, but Helena still could not help to burst out in distress right at the breakfast table. Harry had just informed her--awkwardly, as she had just rambled about her fantasizing about what a wonderful break they were going to have together--that he would not be staying for the Christmas holiday. Quickly, Helena cleared her throat and cowered back down.

“I’m sorry, don’t know what came over me. Don’t know what I was expecting--of  _ course  _ you would be going home to Ginny. Dunno why I didn’t think of that before. . .” She picked over her food, dejected.

“I’m sorry, Hels.” Helena didn’t know why, but the nickname sounded different coming from Harry’s mouth. She felt the back of her neck bristle just slightly--a funny sensation, considering she wasn’t even angry at all. “I s’pose I should have just made that more evident.” He seemed genuinely apologetic, and for this she waved him off.

“No, no,” she dismissed, still a tad embarrassed by her outburst. “It really should have been a given.  _ I’m  _ sorry.”

Harry opened his mouth to say more, but was interrupted by a cheery voice; Neville had just arrived, and he looked quite rosy in the cheeks. Helena guessed he must have just made the walk up from the greenhouses, in the bitter cold. Nevertheless, there was still a bright smile plastered on his face as he greeted, “Morning!”

“Well, you look happy today,” Harry directed his attention to the herbologist. He prodded him with his elbow. “What’s got you like this?”

“I’ve got some Christmas roses blooming down in one of the greenhouses,” Neville explained, picking out some bacon. “They may be common, but they sure are beautiful.”

At this, Harry and Helena shared a look, grinning slightly--it was a unique experience, always, to see Neville in his element. 

“And what were you lot just talking about?” Neville asked them, likely noticing how quiet they had gotten since he’d arrived at the table.

“I’ve just devastated Helena,” Harry sighed, looking regretfully at her again. Helena didn’t know how else to put it--when Harry acted this way, it was as if a puppy was moping for being reprimanded. “I had to break it to her that I won’t be here for the holidays.”

“Oooooh,” Neville nodded.

“But you’ll be here then, right?” Helena practically begged Neville to know.

“Er--” Neville’s eyes flicked to Harry, hesitant. “Uh, no. I’m sorry, Hels.”

Helena gaped, then shut her mouth just as fast, feeling slightly as if some of the air had been sucked out of her. She tried not to let it read on her face, otherwise she’d have to deal with Harry’s puppy eyes again.

“It’s alright,” she said, though her voice sounded moody. There went her Christmas bubble, popped. She tried to remind herself that there were other things she could do, even if they didn’t involve the boys. . .  _ right _ ?

“But I’ll be back on New Year’s Day,” Neville tried to add on, the note of positivity in his voice a little overdone for her sake. “We can have a fire, some hot chocolate. . .”

At this, Helena gave a little smile. “That sounds good,” she admitted, some of the upset from before eased. “I could even invest in some Firewhiskey, if you want.”

“No need,” Harry chimed in. “Lord knows he’s already got an arsenal of it up there in his office.”

“You make me sound like an alcoholic.”

“You and I both know you aren’t,” Harry laughed, “but you suck the fun out of saying so when  _ other _ people don’t know.”

“Well, consider it a gift to add to your collection,” she said promptly, making a mental note to pick some up in order to have a little something ready to give to him come the holidays. “Speaking of which, what  _ would  _ you really like, Nev?”

“Oh, what am I? Chopped liver?” Harry commented.

Helena slugged him playfully, and he nudged her back with a matched energy. “Come off it, Potter. Did it occur to you that I’ve already got yours planned?”

Harry gave a boyish smile. “You do, now?”

“Absolutely. So I’m asking Neville--what would you truly like? Besides liquor.”

Neville gave thought. “How about you just surprise me?”

“Of course you would say that,” Helena huffed. “I like to at least have a little bit of a plan, you know.”

Neville laughed and Harry gave Helena a sly smile. “ _ You  _ know, you’ve just given me the perfect gift idea for  _ you. _ ”

Helena’s brows raised. “I have now?” She searched what she had just said for any sort of inkling of what that might be. Alas, she could not think of anything, stumped completely. “Alright then, Potter, but it better not be anymore perfect than mine, though I have a feeling that it might be a little bit expected.”

“Expected? How so?”

Helena shrugged, and then took a moment to glance down at her watch--the morning was getting on, and she quickly realized she had meant to be up in McGonagall’s office by then. She hastily rose from her seat. “Sorry to cut this off, but I’ve got to be off,” she said hurriedly, snatching up her satchel. “I’ve got supervision duty for the next Hogsmeade trip--Professor McGonagall’s got to go over some things with me--see you later--” And she cut herself off as she whisked away from the table, leaving both Harry and Neville in a cloud of confusion and bemusement. 

Of course, Professor McGonagall had not given her a time in which she needed to be in her office to run over Hogsmeade procedures; however, Helena liked to show her work ethic by always being bright and early, a window she was about to nearly miss if she did not hurry up the steps fast enough.

“Sugar quills,” she blurted at the gargoyle, which swung open to reveal the ever-so-familiar steps. Up she ascended, eventually landing in the open office, which was slightly shadowy today owing to the snow crested on the window panes.

“Miss Borington,” Professor McGonagall greeted in pleasant surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Please,” she indicated, “sit.”

Whilst trying to catch her breath, Helena nodded and smoothed out the fabrics of her robes as she strode forward and leaned back into a seat. She folded her hands.

“Just wanted to get a jump on the day, Professor,” she stated as she batted her eyelashes and folded her hands in her lap.

“The effort is appreciated,” McGonagall smiled. She set aside some papers she had been poring over just moments before, and replaced them with some new ones from inside her desk. Helena craned her neck just slightly, out of curiosity, to see if she could read some of them from where she was sitting. “Now, starting off, I must get your signature at the bottom of this form here. It is essentially acknowledging that you are part of the Hogwarts staff and are fully capable of taking responsibility for the actions of students who are under your supervision.” She turned and slid a sheet toward Helena now, providing her with a quill. Helena moved her hand toward the quill to oblige, but gave pause.

“Professor,” she began cautiously. “Could you elaborate? I’ll be taking responsibility for troublemaking?”

“I am sure it is nothing you’ll have to be concerned about,” McGonagall said knowingly, “but it stands for any incident, such as a student sneaking away from a commons area, or straying too far from the grounds in which they are allowed to roam.”

“I see,” Helena nodded, and picked up the quill. She scrawled a loopy signature over the bottom line.

“Thank you.” McGonagall took the form back and burned it to the bottom of her pile, pinching her spectacles up the bridge of her nose to read onward. “Now, if you’ll be patient enough, I am to read the entire set of rules to you. Afterward, you will get a copy of what is written here.”

Helena tried not to look deflated, but the sound of this did make her feel a bit bored already. McGonagall must have sensed this, because she peered over the rim of her spectacles and added, in a sort of sarcastic tone, “Trust me, dear, this is just as exciting to me as it is to you.” Helena allowed herself a close-lipped smile, trying not to reveal how amusing she found this notion.

From there, Professor McGonagall plunged into the document, one of which even Helena, usually so enthusiastic to learn, had to admit was a bore. Each paragraph seemed to drag on slower than the last, and though she felt an urge to drift off to sleep, or daydream, she forced herself to digest it all; she knew that luck would have it that she would miss something important, and then that very thing would be the most applicable in an emergency, should one arise.

Finally, just when it started to take  _ all _ her energy to try and keep her mind from wandering, McGonagall took a final, deep breath, and stopped. “Well, do you think you got all that?”

Relieved, Helena nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” McGonagall said as she sat the paper aside. She took her spectacles off her nose and let them dangle against the folds of her velvet robes. “Now, do you have any questions?”

Helena shook her head, still absorbing most of the information. “Not as of right now, but later, if I think of it, I’ll come to you with them if that’s alright.”

“Splendid,” McGonagall said. “Now, if I could get you to sign the bottom of this one. . .” And moments later, the same loopy signature was printed at the end of the very long packet. Afterward, McGonagall handed over a very old looking folder. “Enclosed in that is your copy. You’ll do well to keep it in your office, filed away, if you don’t mind. Perhaps you might be inclined to give it a thorough glance or two before the upcoming trip. And here”--she added, flipping one last page over the table to Helena--“is a list of all the students who have signed up to go this time around. Since the village is so sprawling, we do a head check roughly every forty-five minutes.”

“Got it,” Helena acknowledged. “Anything else, Professor?”

“I believe that is all, Miss Borington. You may be dismissed.” McGonagall pulled the stack she had previously been working on back toward her.

New material in hand, Helena was almost to the door before she gave another pause. “Oh, Professor?” She stopped, one hand raised toward the knob. She turned back slightly.

“What is it, Miss Borington?”

“I kept meaning to conference with you over an idea a student of mine had.” Helena pulled her hand away from the door and turned around completely now, clutching the documents to her chest. “A club. A potions club. Would you be willing. . . to allow me to host one?” She had no idea why she suddenly felt so nervous. It was similar to the way she’d get when asking her grandmother for a cookie on Christmas Eve.

McGonagall sat her quill to the side and folded her arms, leaning forward. “Well, I don’t see why not. You say a student proposed it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Geradine Vance.”

McGonagall smiled at this, a twinkle glinting in her eye for a moment before she turned back to her work. “Bright young girl that one is, wouldn’t you agree?”

Helena beamed as if she were speaking of somebody kin to her. “Oh, absolutely.”

McGonagall gave another hum of agreement, and with that, Helena took her cue to be on her way. 

Though it was a Saturday, and though she should be enjoying such a fact, Helena had a long day ahead of her; her to-do list consisted of everything between catching up on grading through her students’ assignments, to continuing working on Harry’s gift. After all, she thought, Christmas was liable to sneak up on her quicker than expected, and she would look like a fool if she promised something that ended up being late.

But first, her stomach began to rumble--she knew that before she could take to her classroom, she would have to swing by the Great Hall.

When she approached the High Table, it was no surprise to find Harry and Neville already there, though it was worth mentioning that they were really the only ones--Professors Sinistra and Flitwick were in conversation near the other end, but that was really it, besides the few students that trickled in and out of the Entrance Hall in groups.

“There’s the girl,” Neville clapped upon her arrival. She stood on the opposite side of the table now, not intending to stay long so as to get a jump on her tasks. All she needed to do was grab some food. “How’d your meeting with McGonagall go?”

“Fine,” Helena shrugged casually, loading up a plate with two sandwiches and a bowl of grapes. “It was nothing spectacular, really. Actually a bore, mostly. But get this,” she smiled, “she approved my club!”

“That’s great news!” Harry said, leaning back in his seat, beaming. Neville gave her a high five. Then, once he’d sat back down, he furrowed his brows.

“Not planning to eat with us?”

Helena shook her head. “Sorry boys. I’ve got a lot to do today.” She popped a grape in her mouth. “See you at supper?”

“Come on now, this is the second time today that you’ve ran off from us,” Harry joked. “I’m beginning to figure we stink or something.”

“Oh, you do. Something terrible, really.” Helena winked. “But, if you must know, I do have a life outside of all. . .  _ this. _ ”

“‘Course you do. But if  _ you  _ must know, I am quite accustomed to my friends-- _ both _ of my friends--always being around to validate my presence,” Harry quipped, poking some fun at himself. Helena resisted the urge to ruffle his hair.

“And here they could have had the perfect chance to call you the  _ Clingy  _ One.” Neville burst out in laughter and elbowed Harry.

Harry feigned pain in his heart. “You are ruthless, Helena Borington.”

“Right. And where was I off to again? Oh, to make  _ you  _ a Christmas gift? By  _ hand _ ? I believe that is correct.” She smirked at him. “See you, boys.” And she turned on her heel to take her leave.

Harry called after her. “So it’s handmade then?!” 

***

Once seated at her desk, Helena pulled her wand from her robes and gave it a flick; up and out of her desk drawer rose two large needles and a roll of fabric. With a gentle clicking, the knobbly things began to roll against one another as they worked to make the fabric a little more whole; it was really shaping up to be the blanket Helena had in mind, that of a Gryffindor red, all for the baby Potter on the way. Already stitched into one corner was an embroidered broomstick, imprinted with every last detail, from the bristles at the tail to the miniscule “Firebolt” emblazoned on the handle. Of course, many brooms had been released ever since the famed Firebolt, but Helena simply could not resist giving a nod to the very broom that Harry had flaunted in her second year of school. Though they had not been close back then, she remembered clearly the awe she had been in as he marched out onto the Quidditch pitch with such a majestic, expensive object.

Now that the development of the baby blanket was continuing to be underway, Helena began her other necessary work. Grading papers was nothing exciting, but still, she pulled a stack toward her, the assignments in which she had promised her class a treat for. Quickly, she jotted down a note to remind herself to pay a visit to Honeydukes on the Hogsmeade trip.

She had just begun to shuffle through the first three assignments when suddenly, there came a knock upon the door. Just in case it was Neville, or Harry, (or both), Helena quickly hid the unfinished blanket back in its designated drawer. After everything was scuffled roughly back into place, properly hidden away, she cleared her throat. “Come in,” she chided in what felt like an unnaturally high voice. She cleared her throat again.

She was taken by surprise, however, when Dane Heracles revealed herself, shyly peeking around the edge of the door, which she had taken caution to barely open. “I do hope I am not disturbing you, professor,” she said quietly.

“No, not at all!” Helena tried to be as personable as possible; the prospect of her intimidating a student was outrageous, in her opinion, but it still seemed that she did Dane. Dane, with her long hair swishing delicately behind her, took a few steps in and took a seat. “What can I help you with, dear?”

Dane looked quite. . . uncertain. She tugged at and twiddled her thumbs anxiously. “I just didn’t know where else to turn.” Her cheeks tinged with a pinkness. For some reason, with the way Dane was behaving, an uneasiness had begun to invade Helena’s instincts.

“Dane,” she said slowly. “What is it, honey?”

Instead of looking everywhere else, like she had been up until then, Dane finally made some eye contact. “It’s about Anaid Herfinch.”

Tension continued to creep along within Helena, unintentionally tightening up her shoulder muscles. She nodded, completely attentive. “Go on.”

Dane took a moment. She sighed deeply, roamed her gaze a bit again, then looked back to Helena. “She seems. . . unwell.”

“Unwell? How so?”

She seemed hesitant again. Helena decided to give her a little nudge.

“Look at me, dear. You are safe here. If you are suspicious of something, you are protected to openly discuss it in this room, with me, if you feel comfortable nowhere else. What you are saying could indeed be very vital information, whether it is in pertinence to your safety, Anaid’s safety, or others’.”

Now this had really done it. Dane broke open completely, seemingly motivated by the reassurance. “It’s not that she mutters to herself a whole lot--but she does--at least when she thinks nobody is listening. But I listen, and I hear it, and it makes my stomach churn. . .”

She now seemed completely distressed. Helena allowed her to take a moment before pressing on.

“What does she say, Dane?” She asked softly, though her memories were taking her back to her first year, remembering how it had come to light that Ginny Weasley had been possessed by a figment of the menace Voldemort himself. . .

“It’s sort of jumbled, most times,” Dane admitted, cheeks further flushing, “but I always hear. . . always hear Davis’s name come up. . . and then some even stranger grumblings. . . They sound dangerous, Professor, and then there’s. . . there’s the darkest sounding ones. . . about. . .” She bit her lip.

“About what, dear?” Helena’s heart had begun to beat very fast.

Dane swallowed.

“Somebody called the Half-Blood Prince, Professor.”


End file.
